Echo Answers
by aradian nights
Summary: Armin Arlert, an aspiring investigative journalist, returns to his hometown in order to try and solve the mystery of the disappearance of Eren Jaeger. With the help of his friends, he imagines he can probably figure out what had triggered Eren's disappearance. The only trouble is that all of them are liars, and as Armin puzzles out truth, he fears that it should've stayed buried.
1. Chapter 1

**Cleverness and Gullibility**

The soft patter of pebbles colliding with glass had awoken him from a hazy dream. He'd been doing some late night cramming, and it seemed to him that he must've fallen asleep at his desk because his cheek was stuck to the razor thin page of his history text book, the details of the past becoming hazy in the midst of the foggy present. He lifted head to squint out the window, and he'd felt strange, as though his mind and soul had been swallowed by a swelling bog.

He'd treaded carefully across the cool wooden floor, his toes wriggling as he reminded himself not to wake up his grandfather. He peered out through the porous fly screen, and he found himself greeted by the luminous face of Eren Jaeger, grinning like a fool as he bounced up and down in the grass below.

This couldn't end well.

Armin popped out the fly screen, feeling cold and nervous as the bitter rush of late autumn wind came snapping at his face, rabid and snarling like a dog gone mad. He shuddered a little.

"Eren," he whispered as loudly as he could, wiping the saliva from his cheek. "Eren, what are you doing? It's like, three in the morning, or… or something…"

"I want to show you something," his best friend called, looking much too pleased for someone standing outside in the frigid air with nothing but a thin pair of jeans and a sweater zipped up to his chin.

"That's not ominous at all," Armin remarked, feeling vacant and sad, though he could not say why. "What kind of something?"

"I found something in the woods," Eren said. He wasn't smiling anymore. In fact, he'd looked downright somber, if memory served. "You love mysteries, don't you, Armin?"

_I do_, he thought numbly, _I do, I do, I love mysteries, but something's not right here_.

"I don't know, Eren," he'd said instead, his eyes swiveling toward the door. He thought he'd heard a creaking floorboard, but he couldn't be sure if it had been his grandfather or his own unsteady feet. "But I don't want you going into the woods alone."

"Then come with me," he said eagerly. "Mikasa will meet us there. It'll be just like when we were little!"

"Shh!" Armin's eyes were still on his door, but he heard no more sounds and sensed no more oddities, so he figured he'd be okay if he continued talking. He turned back to look down at Eren, and he felt an anxious knot clench up inside his gut. "Please, Eren, don't go into the woods."

Eren's only reply was a vacant little stare that gleamed in the darkness, and a furrowed brow as though he simply could not fathom Armin's warning.

He hadn't listened.

The next morning Armin woke up with a terrible headache, the kind that left the entire body weak and achy, and it had prevented him from going to school or even attempting to contact Eren and Mikasa. Armin had been fearful and ashamed because Eren had not listened to his advice to stay out of the forest, and not only that but Armin felt as though he'd disappointed him in some way. He wanted to make it up to him, but he didn't know how, and he was too scared to go into the forest alone, even if Mikasa and Eren were there to protect him. It just wasn't a fair arrangement, and he regretted every moment spent away from his best friends.

Armin had slept through most of the day and woken up on the couch. His headache was fading by that point, so he went back up to his room to lie down on his bed and call his friends to make sure they were okay. He threw a blanket onto the bare mattress, closing his eyes and letting himself come back to his mind slowly. He didn't feel right about any of this. He scratched his knuckles as he plucked up his phone and flipped it open, dialing Eren's number and waiting.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

"_Hey, you've retched— fuck, I fucked up. Okay, whatever, this is Eren, uh, obviously…? I guess, so leave a message I guess, I don't care, I don't actually check them usually. Okay. Bye_!" The beep at the end of the recording was ear shattering, and Armin blinked a few times afterward. He felt sick to his stomach.

"Eren," he said quietly. "Eren, call me back. Please."

He hung up, not knowing what else to say. He texted Eren a few more times after that, begging him to call immediately, but no call came, and there was an uneasy feeling squirming inside the pit of his stomach. What had happened last night?

Armin had been confined to his house for an entire day, sickened and exhausted, which he attributed to overworking. It didn't help that he was riddled with anxiety over the fact that his friends had not contacted him since the previous night.

He became so distraught, in fact, that by the end of the night he'd locked himself in the bathroom and scratched at his knuckles so furiously they bled. It was a nervous habit, one that never went away, and he felt even more distressed when he realized what he'd done, so he ran his hands under hot water for a little while, just a little while, until he felt better.

As he'd begun to bandage his fingers, the house phone rang.

Armin ran to pick it up.

"Hello?" he asked breathlessly, too anxious to even check the caller ID. "Eren?"

"No," a calm voice from the other end of the receiver said. It was an older man's voice, a bit raspy perhaps from smoking. Armin closed his eyes, his heart thundering. He knew without the man having to say. "Is this Armin Arlert?"

"Yes, sir," he said, feeling the need to sound as calm as the man on the other line. "Who is this?"

"My name is Dot Pixis," said the man, sounding kindly enough. "I'm with the Shiganshina Police Department."

"Oh," Armin said blankly. His mouth had gone dry. "Okay…? Why are you calling me, Mr. Pixis?"

Armin didn't really need to be told. He felt like he'd known all along.

"You're very good friends with Mr. Eren Jaeger, correct?" Pixis asked. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"

Armin felt a strange bubbling panic rise up in his chest, and he thought about it for only a moment.

"Last night," he said, "after dinner, he called me about some homework stuff. Is everything okay, officer?"

He didn't know why he'd lied.

He was absolutely terrified, and he felt as though there was something going on that he could not understand or reach, and he hated that he'd been too much of a coward to go along with Eren's scheme.

"Would you happen to know of any reason Eren would have to run away?" Pixis asked tentatively.

"I…" Armin stood in his kitchen, feeling dizzy and nauseous and horrified. His voice was weak, disbelieving, and shaky as he spoke up. "Officer Pixis… is Eren okay…?"

The line was quiet for only a few moments before the man let out a long sigh.

"Carla Jaeger gave me your number," Pixis said cautiously, "because you were not picking up this morning. Armin, I don't want to worry you, but your friend has been missing for about twenty four hours."

It was difficult to grasp what he was saying, even though Armin had suspected for hours and hours now. He felt sweat gather in the folds of his palm as he dug the phone receiver against his ear and closed his eyes, trying to hold back the frantic tears and the panicked breaths.

"Missing…?" he uttered distantly.

* * *

><p>The milky white cement blocks of his dorm room wall were ugly and bare. He gripped his sad little cardboard box tighter as Jean tore away the last of the scotch tape used to pin up various memorabilia across the years. The box was small, because Armin didn't have very many photographs, and he'd mostly covered his wall with maps and sticky notes and vague reminders. Half of it was in the trash now.<p>

"Well," Jean said, inspecting his handy work. "That's that, then."

He jumped down from Armin's bed, tossing a postcard into the box without much care. The postcard was of the massive river that stretched through the extent of Shiganshina, running through downtown and snaking through the woods and into a closed off ravine that teenagers loved to occupy. It was such a huge pitted area, and locals called the great crags that led into a cavernous pool "Titan's Maw". It got its name because of the death toll from the numerous jumpers who'd gotten trapped and swallowed up by the depth and unpredictable river currents.

Of course, search teams had scoured Titan's Maw time and again for Eren's body, but all they'd found was a sneaker that _could've_ been Eren's, but also could've easily been another kid's. Armin had seen the sneaker, and though it'd been cleaned up, he couldn't tell if it was Eren's because the paint had faded and Eren's shoes had always been generic in style.

Anyway, that'd been years ago. Nobody was looking for Eren Jaeger anymore.

Well, almost nobody.

"Are you sure about this, man?" Jean asked, glancing down at Armin worriedly. "I mean, you said it yourself. You hate that place."

He'd thought about it a lot the past few months, and the decision had been rather abrupt. It had come, in fact, from a series of texts Mikasa had left him over the winter break. Mikasa kept in touch as often as she could, but she sometimes drifted off into periodic silences that only ever lifted after days of nothing. He was hopelessly concerned for her, and he wished she'd left for college with him. She'd decided to stay in Shiganshina for a reason she apparently felt was obvious.

"For Eren," she'd explained when he'd begged her to apply to the same university as him, and she'd refused.

Armin understood, and he felt guilty for leaving Eren behind as well, but the fact was that he felt as though Shiganshina had drained him of half his sanity. So he'd left. And now he was going back solely because of Mikasa Ackerman's sleepy messages.

He'd screenshotted them and read them over and over and over.

He set the box down on the floor and sat on his bed, pulling out his phone to read them again. Jean glanced at him, and he rolled his eyes.

_why did we go into the woods, armin_

It had begun on a chilly December night. One message at one in the morning. He'd replied hastily in confusion.

**_What?_**

w_hy did i liten to him wy can't w go back why on't we go back i want to go back let's go back!_

**_Holy shit, Mikasa, are you okay?_**

Initially he'd been incredibly freaked out, because these texts were from Mikasa's phone but none of this nonsense sounded like Mikasa and it scared the shit out of him. The messages had kept coming for a solid hour.

_i feel funny i think very funny_

_i hear hs sound rushing along inside my ears ht rushig ruhing slow sound it's king me sick i'm so recked i think very much so and i feel like there's something bad here but i don't know!_

**_I think you might just be high…_**

_time flows like a river doesn't it_

**_I guess so._**

_don't get stuck in it like he did_

_that's what my dad used to tell me_

_flow slow and feel nothing_

_i feel time weird is that weird is this weird_

_are you there, armin_

_i think i need to lay down but_

_ah_

_where are you_

_are you okay_

_answer me please i'm not i don't think i am_

**_Go to sleep, Mikasa._**

_? ? ? You just woke me up_

_What's wrong _

… _Armin, I didn't write that_

Anyway, it had been an eventful few days after getting scared out of his wits by what Mikasa later claimed was a mixture of getting high and letting Annie Leonhardt play with her phone while high. She said she didn't remember writing it, and apologized profusely about it, but Armin never forgot it. It proved something.

Mikasa had lied to the police. She'd said Eren had called her and asked her if she wanted to go exploring in the woods, and she'd told him to quit fooling around and go to bed. She'd lied.

But so had Armin.

Maybe it was his fault Eren hadn't been found yet.

"Are you looking at the texts again?" Jean asked, sounding rather irked for some reason or another.

"Yep." Armin hummed, scrolling up to reread some of Mikasa's earlier texts. There was something very wrong with all of it, but he couldn't place why.

"Dude, people say weird shit when they're buggin'," Jean said, taking the box from Armin's bed. He pursed his lips and glanced up at the ceiling. "I'd know for sure."

"Mikasa was telling me something," Armin sighed. "I'm sure of it. I need to see her and talk to her about what happened the night Eren disappeared."

"Or maybe she was just seriously baked well done, and could not make a coherent sentence to save her life?" Jean offered, taping the box shut and tossing it onto Armin's old bare desk. It was a little sad to be leaving this room. He'd spent many late night cram sessions here. And also, Shiganshina was not a happy place anymore.

_It's still home, though_, Armin thought, tossing his phone away and rubbing his eyes furiously.

"Look," Armin said, dropping his hands into his lap. "I know it doesn't mean much to you, but Mikasa is the only person in the entire world who understands me better than anyone. That doesn't mean I don't think she lied to the police about meeting Eren in the woods, though. She's definitely keeping something from me."

"So what if you end up finding Eren's body out there in the river, or whatever?" Jean stuck a cigarette between his teeth, and Armin watched him thumb at the lighter for a moment or so, looking irritable when it spat and guttered out. "Like you can't expect Eren to still be alive, can you?"

"I don't know," Armin sighed, closing his eyes and flopping onto his back. "_Logically_ I shouldn't entertain the thought of it, but there's always a chance he was abducted."

"And murdered," Jean reminded, his words punctuated by the wiggling of his cigarette.

"I just don't get it." Armin watched the grooves of the ceiling, and he scowled. "I'm missing something huge, I just know it! If I can get Mikasa to tell me what she knows, I can definitely solve this case."

"You think you're more reliable than the police?" Jean scoffed, finally getting a light on the end of his cigarette. Smoke bloomed at casually, a familiar scent by now to a boy who'd bent a few years getting second hand cancer.

Armin sat up, swallowing thickly as he wrapped his mind around the issue at hand. Eren had been missing for years. He'd vanished without a trace, and the case had gone cold before it had even really been investigated. But Armin wasn't a cop, and he didn't have to play fair. He'd find out what happened to Eren, one way or another.

"I _know_ I am," Armin said firmly.

* * *

><p>They'd taken a train to Shiganshina. It was only a few hours, but to Armin it felt like lifetimes were stretching out before him in the shapes of wheat fields and craters and jagged city skylines. He felt like he'd forgotten something back at the dorm, but he'd made several checklists, and gone through them all twice in preparation for this. He was as ready as he'd ever be superficially, but mentally he felt as though his mind was still hanging around in that empty dorm room waiting for a sign.<p>

Armin of course had his reasons beyond the strangeness that was Mikasa's frantic texts for wanting to look into Eren's disappearance again. There were no suspects, no evidence to suggest foul play, nothing but an old shoe and a timeline that didn't add up. Armin had wanted to figure out what had really happened since the morning he'd woken up with a blinding headache, memories of Eren's request swimming in his foggy brain.

Considering Armin was on the verge of graduating, and he'd all but finished the majority of his classes, he'd gotten the idea to use Eren's disappearance as a subject for his capstone project. He'd gotten it approved and made arrangements to finish the rest of his classes online while he spent the remainder of his semester in Shiganshina. Jean had done something similar, only his final project was something more of a documentary than an elaborate investigation. Jean was a film major, after all.

When Armin had suggested it, Jean had taken a long drag from a joint and laughed a great puff of foul smelling smoke. "That's a little too ambitious for me," he'd said, rolling his eyes. "Besides, I make movies, not documentaries."

Armin had refrained from laughing at him incredulously, and instead implored him to think about him. Inevitably the guy had come around, because after doing some quick research on Eren Jaeger's disappearance he noted that there was… very little information at all. He'd been missing for years, and there was not a single scrap of information regarding his disappearance open to the public.

"Were they even _looking_?" Jean had once commented in frustration, flinging his hands out toward his computer screen and scoffing. "God, you wouldn't even know the kid was missing if not for all the social media commentary!"

It had honestly been so long ago that Armin could no longer remember what the investigation had been like. He'd never been given details, no matter how many times he'd asked. It was as though nobody had even tried to find Eren.

"And this, good viewers, is the famed Armin Arlert's resting face," Jean said, sticking his camcorder in Armin's face. His voice managed to jolt Armin out of his reverie. "Creepy, isn't it?"

"Why are you filming me?" Armin asked, feeling vague discomfort in knowing he was being recorded. He turned his face away and began to fiddle with his phone, feeling anxious and bemused. It was bad enough that he was dreading returning to Shiganshina, but he didn't need Jean's more unsavory antics to get on his last nerve. Sometimes when Jean got too unmanageable, Armin would imagine how badly Eren would chew him out for his shameless narcissism and distant personality.

"Who else am I going to film?" Jean lowered the camera, and he frowned. "Dude, you're about to try and singlehandedly solve the mystery of a disappearance that literally has zero plausible explanations, let alone a clear cut investigation. Of course I'm going to film you, this is what my project's about."

"Well, like, can't you give me a warning beforehand?" Armin asked nervously, eying the camcorder with clear agitation. He hoped he wouldn't regret roping Jean into this. He was nice, but he was hardly ever serious, and this investigation was hardly going to be fun. He understood it would take a lot of grueling research, and many all nighters that he wasn't even remotely prepared for.

"Calm down," Jean said, slumping in his seat. "I just want to get some candid shots of you."

"Your documentary isn't about me," Armin reminded. "It's about Eren. Remember that."

The silence that came after was long and awkward, and Armin shifted in discomfort, because he'd known already that Jean had forgotten. He had known, and he was fearful of that fact. He didn't want anyone to ever forget Eren. That was what this was all for.

"Armin," Jean said softly. He peered down at Armin's face, his tawny eyes growing considerably sympathetic. It was odd. "You… you don't think Eren's still alive, do you?"

"What?" Armin couldn't tell if Jean was serious, and so he slumped in his seat and stared vacantly out his window. "How should I know if he's alive or dead? Sure, I hope he's alive, but I'm also not naïve enough to think that there's not a possibility he's buried in a ditch somewhere. That's what we're here to find out. Okay?"

"Okay, man," Jean muttered, glancing at him worriedly. "Jeez."

Armin rubbed his face tiredly, and he tried not to take Jean's words to heart. _What if he really is dead?_ he thought dizzily. _What will I do if Eren's gone forever? _Armin had spent the years entertaining the thought that Eren was alive and happy somewhere, that he'd run away from home to prove a point or something equally outrageous, and now he was off having adventures in the wild, wild world. Armin had always wanted to be a part of these fantasies, to run away and look for himself, but after his grandfather had died Armin had been in a tight situation financially, and it was either a scholarship out of Shiganshina or the loss of his sanity and his future.

He'd always thought he'd chosen wisely, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Hey," Jean whispered excitedly, nudging Armin with his elbow. His finger was extended toward a peak of glinting skyscrapers, glass and steel gleaming like mad little knives about to topple over and pierce their train. The city was one that Armin recognized, if only by the deadly architecture in the twinkling spires. "Look. Home sweet home."

This was Trost.

Trost was an abnormally large district north of Shiganshina, which was in truth more of a small town that had branched off from Trost for some inexplicable reason. Armin had read a few history textbooks, and as he understood it Shiganshina had been a religious refuge while Trost had been something of a city of heretics, breathing songs and art and life in opposition to a stringent old religious order that had long since been lost. Trost had managed to grow into a prosperous city due to its leniency, while Shiganshina had developed into a moderate sized community of some oddly superstitious folk. Sasha had once told him not to pet a passing stray black cat, because it was bad luck. Armin could not bring himself to believe such a thing.

Technically there were no trains that went directly into Shiganshina, so Trost was their stop.

"What was it like?" Armin asked, kicking out his bag from under his seat. "I mean, living in a city. I feel like I would've been terrified to leave my home half the time."

"Nah, the crime rate's not so bad," Jean laughed. "I mean, sure I've gotten mugged once or twice, but that's a learning experience."

He imagined being cornered in a dark alley and getting robbed at gunpoint. He couldn't see why Jean was being so nonchalant about it, but he supposed if it happened enough he'd probably become jaded too.

They exited the train with some vaguely high spirits, Armin's mood boosted by a tingly excitement at the revelation of what was about to happen. He stood at the platform beside Jean, feeling sick with his anxiety and hope, his knuckles white around the handle of his suitcase.

"I should probably like," Jean sighed, "tell my mom that I'm here, probably."

"If that's what you want."

"Eh." Jean rocked back on his heels, and he scanned the platform. Armin took note of those around him, the man near a bench tapping his foot impatiently and checking his watch twice within a span of thirty seconds, a family of four lounging on their suitcases and chattering in a language he did not recognize initially, but assumed to be Arabic, and he saw a young woman sitting and reading alone on a brick wall the encompassed a small garden of rose bushes.

He nearly dropped his bags in excitement.

"Mikasa!" he bellowed.

* * *

><p><em>Happy Birthday, Narfi! =']<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**The Practical Girl**

It was a tiny room, a bed too large for a tiny girl sitting against the far wall and it took up far too much space, gobbling up the empty floor room while the rest of the furniture was stuck in little gaps of space, hugging the walls for dear life. There was one small window, which filtered in grayish light, dust plentiful in the air but not so much on the sill. The walls were a soft gray hue, like smudges of ash drifting across sheetrock, and they were painfully bare. The room looked lonely and empty in spite of being so cramped.

Armin recalled one day stepping up to a great big rectangular frame hung upon Mikasa's wall, pictures of all sorts stuck together in a beautiful collage. He noted pictures of himself strung about, pictures of him smiling a gap toothed smile, rosy cheeked and bright eyed, him shying away from Eren, who was grinning broadly with a beetle cupped in one hand as he faced the camera, him who smiled and smiled and smiled back when there was nothing to frown about, in the woods and in the creek and laying in a bed of leaves with his blond hair melting into strands of black and brown as he and Mikasa and Eren curled on the forest floor, a picture taken at sunset with red soaked smiles and yellow lit eyes.

A photograph had fluttered to the floor.

Armin had bent to pick it up, but he noticed something odd about the space it had left behind. The back of the picture frame was grayish, and then suddenly pink as Armin's hand drew across the space.

A mirror?

"Mikasa," Armin had said, shifting another photo to be sure he wasn't simply seeing things. There was, in fact, a mirror behind the great collage of pictures Mikasa had compiled. Armin dragged his finger across the heavy wooden frame, and he jostled it, noting it seemed to be attached firmly to the wall. He whirled around to face his friend, who was lying on her bed, her arms sprawled out and one eye cracked open to glance at him. She had one earbud in, and the other was connected to Eren's ear. He was lying beside her, seemingly asleep. Armin had felt a pang of jealousy for a reason he could not explain, though for which one of them he could not say. For both. For neither. He wanted their warmth, but he didn't want to intrude. It was simply difficult. "Mikasa, why'd you cover up your mirror?'

She sat up, her hair a bit disheveled as it hung in limp black strands around her shoulders. Some strands were plastered to her neck, sticky from sweat, and she blinked at him blearily. It had been a hot summer day, and they'd only been little children, tiny and bony and gangly and awkward. Even Mikasa, beautiful as she was, and even Eren, as confident and outspoken as he could be.

"Mirror," she repeated. Her voice had been soft and tiny then, shyer and a little unsteady. She rubbed her dark eyes, her lips parting as she stared between Armin and the mirror, and she looked utterly bemused. "Oh. I just don't like it."

"Why?" Armin asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. Eren stirred, and he'd yawned very loudly stretching his arms up and groaning.

"It's hot," he moaned. "Let's go swimming."

"It's getting late, Eren," Mikasa sighed. "Maybe… you two should go home."

Eren gave her a disbelieving look, and he turned onto his side, curling up in her blankets, a clear response that he didn't want to leave. Or, more specifically, he did not want to leave Mikasa.

"You could've just taken it down…" Armin muttered, glancing once more at the firmly covered mirror. _So why didn't she? Why is this here?_ Armin did not know, or understand, and it was killing him.

"I know!" Eren gasped, his eyes glittering. "Let's go to Titan's Maw!"

"No way," Mikasa said. She sat for a moment, and Armin watched her gaze fall to Eren's back. He winced, and then stifled a giggle as Mikasa shoved him from her bed, and he toppled right onto the floor in a rather graceless heap.

"Ah!" he cried, rolling onto his side, kicking up his legs as he flailed. "Crap, I'm stuck!"

"You can't even handle a little fall like that," Mikasa told him curtly, peeking over the side of her bed. "And you think you can jump Titan's Maw? Don't be stupid, Eren."

"I could totally do it!" Eren cried indignantly.

"No, you—" Mikasa had trailed off, looking suddenly very distraught. The playfulness had left her delicate features, and her eyes had gone very wide. Armin understood why. He heard movement from below. The shuffling of feet against the metal staircase. Mikasa looked very pale all of a sudden, and her eyes flashed wildly around the room. "Closet."

Eren got himself upright, though his brown hair as in a little forest of tufts, wisps curling across his dark forehead. He glanced at Armin confusedly, and Armin glanced back just the same. They stared at each other, thinking the same thought, feeling the same feelings, and they leapt to their feet. Eren scrambled over Mikasa's bed, sliding onto the floor and flinging her closet door open. Armin hurried after him, throwing a worried glance at Mikasa, who was straightening up her room with her eyes glued on them, lines of worry creasing her brow. Armin was scared, and he didn't know why. Eren grabbed him by the hand and yanked him into the cramped little nook of a closet that held maybe three of Mikasa's four dresses.

The closet was bathed in darkness as he and Eren stood, their breaths hot and intermingling in the creeping silence. They could hear Mikasa moving outside the door, but they could not see her, and it was so hot, and Armin felt sweat prickling his neck and down his back, causing his shirt to stick to his warm skin. He felt dizzy, and a little sick.

"It's cold in here…" Eren muttered. He'd moved, and Armin thought he might've sat down, so Armin felt around in the darkness, bumping a hanger and cursing quietly to himself. He finally found Eren's soft hair, and he mumbled an apology as he sat on the ground beside him.

"Cold…?" Armin whispered, his fingers grasping at Eren's bicep and squeezing a little in fear of the darkness around him and of whatever was creeping up the stairs to scare _Mikasa _out of her wits. He felt hot and gross and sick, but Eren was complaining of cold, and that was so strange because only a minute before he'd been moaning about the heat. Eren could be a bit mercurial in truth, yes, but there was something off about this.

"Yeah…" Eren's breath was muggy against Armin's neck, and Armin closed his eyes and wished very hard for Mikasa to open the door and tell them that it had been nothing, but he knew it hadn't been, so he endured it, and held Eren tighter, and wondered how on earth such a tiny, humid place could be cold to anyone. He felt as though his skin was about to slough off his bones from baking so long in his sweat, like chicken left to stew in its own juices for hours on end.

Armin could feel Eren shivering.

"You really are cold," Armin gasped, his voice a squeaky whisper. He felt Eren nod against him, and then, suddenly, Armin felt it too. A burst of cool air. It felt so good, so refreshing and clear, and it was so nice to think again, because that meant he could maneuver his way out of this situation somehow. He reached behind him and felt along the darkened wall. It was all smooth. "Eren, feel the wall behind you."

"Uh, sure…" The footsteps were loud now. Whoever it was had come up the stairs. Why were they hiding? Armin was trying to figure it out, and it made his throat close up just to think about it. He was so scared. He felt along the floor, his tiny fingers brushing the corners, expecting to find dust bunnies and spider webs, but he felt nothing but roughened, unpainted sheetrock in a few places, and wood.

"There's a box here…" Eren said vacantly. There was a hissing sound of something gliding across the floor. "Ah, crap, it's actually heavy…"

The footsteps were outside the hall.

"Move it," Armin said fiercely. "Move it quickly."

Eren did it without complaint, and the sound was like a glass crashing inside Armin's head, it was so loud. Finally, Eren stopped, and the entire closet was brimming with cool air. Armin had fished for Eren's shirt, and then his hand, and the both knelt there for a moment confusedly, unsure of what they'd just discovered. Armin couldn't wrap his head around it.

"I think," Eren murmured, drawing himself and Armin over the box and toward the wall, "I think there's a hole here."

Armin felt it, and noted it was a small rectangular space, empty for some reason or another. Perhaps an air vent had once been here.

"It feels big enough that anyone with a small build," Armin whispered, braving himself to sticking his hand through the little smuggler's hole, "like the two of us, or even someone a little bigger could fit through here."

"Weird," Eren whispered.

Mikasa's door burst open.

"What the fuck are you doing up here, brat?"

Their breaths had caught. They'd hardly moved the box. Armin was leaning against it, and he was half inside the hole in the wall. He made his decision quickly. He tugged Eren's hand, and he allowed himself to navigate blindly into the darkened passage, through the hole and crouched in a cool little crawl space. His skin was crawling and his heart was beating so hard that he could feel it thudding in his throat.

"Nothing," Mikasa said.

"Nothing? Really? Like I didn't just hear that giant bang?"

"I don't really… know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"You won't look me in the fuckin' eye. You're lying. Do you know what I do with liars?"

"Leave them alone to rot in the— in the street, and don't let them ever come back home?"

"Wow, so you do listen. That's a fucking shocker. So tell me the truth, where are your little friends?"

"Not here," Mikasa said firmly. "I told you. I haven't seen them at all today."

"No?"

"No."

"Then you won't _mind_ if I look in the closet, do you?"

Armin's breath hitched. He and Eren were already crouched in the crawl space, but they hadn't been able to cover the hole up all the way with the box, so they moved themselves deeper into the crawlspace and listened as the closet door opened. Armin was crying into Eren's shirt, and Eren was holding his hand so tightly that the circulation had been cut off and the entirety of his hand was numb and tingly.

"Huh. Looks like you weren't lying after all, huh, bitch?"

"Get out of my room."

"Watch your tongue."

"_Please _get out of my room."

"You smart mouth me again, you're getting your mouth washed out with soap. Got it?"

Mikasa didn't answer. She got it.

* * *

><p>"Mikasa!" he repeated, unable to keep his enthusiasm to himself. He felt as though he'd been holding it in for months and months, and now everything in him was bursting and pouring out of him in great waves of emotions.<p>

She looked up from her book, looking surprised. It was a difficult thing to surprise Mikasa, but he saw her eyes grow wide, and a smile prickle at her lips until suddenly she was grinning in awe and kicking herself off the wall. He dropped his bags and ran at her. She caught him in a tight hug, throwing her arms around his shoulders and squeezing him so tightly he thought he'd break under the sheer pressure, but he didn't care. He could spare a broken rib or two if it was for her.

"You're skinny," she immediately remarked, resting her chin on his shoulder. He was a little taller than her now, but it didn't really feel like it. She put her hand on his head and buried her face in his shoulder, and he inhaled the scent of her hair— sweat and oil and something vaguely flowery in spite of the grime. She was a bit disheveled, wearing simple a pair of old jeans and a stained white tee shirt. She'd come directly from work, it seemed.

"I'm broke," he responded, smiling into the fluffy black strands. Oh, he'd missed her so badly there was a furious aching inside his chest, and he wished with all his heart and all his soul that he'd never left her alone. He'd visited before, of course, for brief periods of time, but it never felt real or concrete, and Mikasa was odd and distant. Today felt real. Today felt like he was returning for real.

"That's fine," she told him, still holding him like he was the last thing on earth she could call her own. "I have food to spare, always, so you'll probably be okay."

"Probably," Armin repeated, smiling at her sheepishly. "Probably is good, I'm down with probably."

She pulled back a little if only to throw a glance at Jean, who had appeared at Armin's back. "Hello," she said. "You're Jean."

Jean did not reply, and so Armin kicked him. He cleared his throat hurriedly, and blurted, "Yeah, I think so!"

"Oh my god," Armin murmured.

Mikasa turned her attention back to Armin as though nothing had happened. "I'm thinking of dying my hair," she said, letting go of him only to allow him to get his bags. "What do you think?"

"What color?" he asked immediately. He could sense how utterly distraught Jean was, but he didn't care at all.

"I don't know yet," she said, taking his bags from him. "Red, maybe."

"That's a bit extreme," he laughed uneasily. He wouldn't stop her if that was what she wanted, but he didn't know what had brought on this decision, and it was likely someone had made a comment to her, which had bent her mind into one particular focus. "Maybe just dye the tips? Or the underside of it?"

"Maybe," she said. They started out of the station, and Armin noticed she was still gripping her book tightly, its spine bobbing against the handle of his suitcase. He caught the name in a flash of dull white letters. _The Parables of Sina_.

That was strangely obscure, but the name sounded familiar to him. He wondered if he'd seen that book at the library before. He'd have to ask her at a later date.

"Holy shit," Jean whistled, his eyes enlarged to the point of disbelief as he stopped in the middle of a cramped little parking lot around the corner from the train station. "You have a Camaro. A— fuck, that's a Chevy ZL1, right? That's a really, really good racing car!"

Mikasa glanced at him. Armin felt the need to snicker into his hand, but he resisted the urge and instead smiled wanly. He must've forgotten to tell Jean about what Mikasa did for a living.

"I know," Mikasa said. She looked a little apprehensive as she popped the trunk, setting Armin's bags inside carefully. It was a little snug, but there was still room for Jean's bags it looked like. She then regarded Jean with a long, bemused stare. "You like racing?"

"Marco— my buddy from high school, Marco and I, we used to sneak out and go to these incredible drag races in between Trost and Shiganshina, that strip— ah, what's it called?"

"The Strip," Mikasa said amusedly, taking Jean's bags.

"Yeah, well, anyway the first race we ever went to we saw this Chevy Camaro rip up asphalt, so ever since then we just bet on the Camaro every time we went." Jean looked very pleased to tell this story, and he smiled at her enthusiastically as she closed the trunk. "We never lost our money, I'll tell you that."

"A car is only as good as its driver," she told him.

"Are you a good driver?" Jean asked eagerly.

She stared at him vacantly, and Armin cut between them, smiling his best smile in hopes that he might cut the tension. Mikasa had a bad habit of acting coldly to people she didn't know very well, and it often made her difficult to deal with at times. She didn't mean it, and she certainly didn't do it to be mean, but ever since they were little she'd always been detached and cold to people she wasn't sure about. In truth, it surprised Armin that Jean wasn't more offended by her chilly demeanor.

"Mikasa taught me and Eren how to drive," Armin blurted, hoping to ease the awkward silence. It worked. Mikasa nodded fondly, and opened the door to the driver's seat, climbing into the car without another word.

"So what was that like?" Jean asked, climbing into the back seat. "Teaching Armin, and stuff? Did he get it right off the bat? Probably did, he's fuckin' good at everything."

"Actually," Armin laughed nervously, glancing at Mikasa. She turned the keys in the ignition, and glanced at him. "I crashed Mikasa's old Camaro."

"You half totaled it," she said.

"I drove it into a ditch," Armin said, feeling a little ashamed.

"You had a Camaro before this one?" Jean asked in awe. "Damn, how do you rake in that much money?"

"It was old," she said, shrugging. "It barely worked."

"You weren't angry that he wrecked it?"

"Angry?" Mikasa sounded honestly confused. "Armin could have died. Bigger men than him have been killed from smaller accidents. He's lucky."

"I was actually fine," Armin said, glancing at Mikasa worriedly. "The door was busted, though, so Eren kinda like… ripped it off…"

"Wow."

It was quiet after that. Dreadfully quiet. He could hear his own heart thudding in his chest, and his mind was spilling over, sloshing up thoughts that he'd rather not hear. _Mikasa doesn't want to hear about this. Mikasa isn't here to reminisce of silly things like that. What am I even doing? How am I supposed to ask her about what happened that night? What am I supposed to do?_

He was scared of speaking to his best friend in the entire world. He might as well give up before he began.

Ah. He couldn't have doubts now. If he had doubts, he'd never be able to complete his capstone, and that meant he wouldn't be able to graduate. He was no fool. He understood what he was risking by not putting his all into this investigation. No matter where it led him.

_Even if it means losing Mikasa?_

He couldn't imagine taking such a path. But he knew it was a plausible outcome, whether he was careful in how he proceeded or not. He couldn't account for Mikasa's temperament.

He didn't know if what he was doing was right, but something in him knew it was necessary. He felt as though he was being dragged by his ankles, flailing and screaming, into a great void. He could not feel what was around him, and he could not see a thing beyond a great yawning darkness, but he understood the unknown was approaching fast. And he was terrified, because he could not stop himself from moving forward.

Mikasa turned on the radio, and Armin listened to Stromae sing in rapid French, only picking up words that he understood here and there. When Armin asked Jean if he understood it, Jean simply shrugged and said he didn't care as long as it had a good beat.

Through the punctuated beat and the smooth French rapping, Armin could catch scraps of what Stromae was saying, and he nodded along to the beat. _Ni l'un ni l'autre, je suis, j'__é__tais, et resterai moi_.

"Neither one nor the other," Armin translated, "I am, I was, and I'll remain myself."

"Shit," Jean whistled. "That's pretty deep for some French rap shit."

"The other stuff's about racism and homophobia I think," Armin admitted, scratching his head.

"Oh, brilliant," Jean muttered.

"I like this song," Mikasa said, turning up the volume. The bass was vibrating the entire car, but Armin didn't mind. He felt nostalgic, sitting there with the rumbling of steady rap in his ears, words flying that he could hardly understand but appreciated nonetheless. He'd been here before, a million times, only Eren had been in the back seat instead of Jean, and they'd been something like children then. Running away had felt easy.

He wondered. Was he trying to replace Eren with Jean? Had it already happened?

Armin only needed to spare Jean a glance to know it wasn't so. Eren had always made Armin feel loved. Jean kinda just made Armin feel like he needed to down a few drinks. And Armin wasn't particularly one for alcohol.

As they neared Shiganshina, Armin was filled with a terrible longing feeling, a sad sort of reminiscing that caught him off guard. He knew this place, knew this air, knew the very pebbles the wheels of Mikasa's car rolled across, and yet he felt like an outsider here, and he could not explain the crippling sadness of knowing he'd lost a home somewhere along the way of growing awkwardly and hurriedly.

Armin missed Eren so much. He missed the way Eren could barrel through hardships without fail, without hesitation, without even a thought. He missed the reassurance, the kind words and the firm smiles and the sharp nods. The little things that let Armin know that Eren was watching, and Eren cared. It had been difficult without him there to give Armin the boost in confidence, and Mikasa had tried her best, but even then she had so many problems of her own to face that Armin didn't want to burden her with his own selfish insecurities.

He noticed Jean was filming their entrance into Shiganshina, but this time he did not stop him. It was probably better if he caught this.

Armin began to notice little familiar landmarks, and every sign he passed, every distant blur of a park or a fence was a pang of bitterness that spread like poison through his heart. He wished he'd never grown up.

"Wow," Armin remarked as Mikasa pulled into the lot of a rather beaten up, but still sturdy-looking building. "It's still standing."

"Ha ha," she said flatly, parking the car. Jean had turned his head to peer up at the sign perched up above a black awning, white and streaked with stains from countless dribbling rainfalls.

"Ackerman Auto Repairs," Jean read aloud. He looked to Mikasa, utterly bewildered. "You fix cars?"

"Yes," she said, yanking the keys from the ignition and exiting the car.

"You didn't tell me she's a mechanic," Jean told Armin accusingly.

"It didn't exactly seem important, Jean," Armin sighed. "I didn't know you liked cars so much, either."

"It's a guilty pleasure."

"They're just cars, Jean."

"That's why it's guilty, dickhead."

Armin opened his door and got out before he had to hear anymore of Jean's… Jean-ness. Usually he'd be more understanding, and try patience with Jean, but he was too emotionally drained for that bullshit right now, and thoughts of Eren were making him sick.

Mikasa lived in an apartment above the shop, and had been doing so for nearly twelve years. Armin couldn't even remember where she'd lived before that, if he'd even known her then. It was all a fabulous blur, and he was sick of blurry memories as of late. He wanted to know everything, but his memories were unreliable at best.

He needed something more concrete than memories and words if he was going to find Eren.

They trekked up the long, narrow metal staircase that connected the lot to the door of Mikasa's apartment, and she stuck her key into the lock before pausing. She frowned.

"What?" Jean asked confusedly. Armin already knew, and he felt fear prickle inside his stomach, his eyes darting around worriedly. They were all standing huddled on a rickety metal platform, and a little shoved could do them all in instantly. He had these thoughts often enough, when he was anxious but right now he felt as thought death had caught him by the throat and was squeezing.

"It's unlocked," she said, yanking her key out and opening her door. As though it were nothing.

Mikasa cut Jean off very sharply with her arm and forcing him back outside. She gave them both dark looks, and disappeared into the house.

Armin didn't like the idea of waiting outside while Mikasa dealt with whatever horrors laid ahead of them inside the apartment, but he was too terrified to move, and he all he could see in front of him was Eren's beaming face in the shadowy autumn night, a request that had left Armin freezing in his place, and waking up with regrets the size of mountains.

_No_, he thought, numbness taking over him as he stepped into the house. _No, not again. I won't. I won't lose anyone else_.

He took off, slipping into the apartment without a word and ignoring Jean when he objected. The sun was low in the sky, and there were shadows skittering all amongst the musty smelling living room. Armin stood, feeling as though the world was tipping, and everything was tipping with it, all except him. He, who stayed upright while the entire world flipped and crashed and burned.

It occurred to him whose apartment this was.

He walked around the length of a stained coffee table, his fingers running over an old cylindrical mark from when Eren had left an iced coffee on it without a coaster. Mikasa hadn't been angry, of course, but Eren had felt guilty about it and promised to fix it somehow. He'd never gotten the chance.

Armin's fingers slid beneath the table, and landed on something cold and metal. He withdrew his hand, sticking it in his pocket and feeling… empty. The knowledge that Mikasa had a gun did not worry him in the slightest. He could not blame her. What was bothering him was that she did not have the gun with her now.

"This is nice," Jean observed.

"Shh," Armin pressed his finger to his lips. He heard footsteps.

Mikasa appeared in the room, and she paused, glancing at Jean and Armin as they stood innocently in the middle of the living room. "I thought I told you to stay outside," she said.

"You didn't _say_ anything, actually…" Jean muttered, scratching the back of his head.

Armin was suddenly hit by the scent of something sweet wafting toward him. It was the heavy hanging wafting smell of something baking, like a cake or something equally as tantalizing. Armin glanced at Mikasa, who merely shook her head. The trouble here was that there was something about this entire situation that made him anxious, but he could not put his finger on it. Was it simply paranoia?

Jean sniffed loudly, lifting his head and looking suddenly very alert. "I smell food," he said.

"Yes," Mikasa sighed, "that'd be—"

"ARMIN!"

He was caught off guard by a pair of slender arms catching him around the waist and squeezing him like a limp little doll. He recognized the voice, a lighthearted whistle of a tone with laughter tinged in words, words always coming in an easy jumble. Sasha Braus was a good friend, and she'd often made him laugh in the most bleak of times. She was a nice person to have around in a crisis.

"Hi, Sasha," Armin gasped, wincing a little as his ribs constricted under her grip. "I didn't expect you to be here…"

"Neither did I," Mikasa said darkly.

"Aw, come on, we knew you were coming," Sasha laughed, nuzzling Armin's hair. He didn't know why she was being so affectionate, but he didn't think he minded. He was uncomfortable with being touched by strangers and acquaintances, but Sasha had been a long time friend, and he knew it had been far too long since he'd last seen or even gotten in touch with her. "You got really tall! You're taller than me now, that's so weird!"

"Is it?" Armin didn't think it was extraordinarily strange that he'd gotten taller, though he'd stopped growing and was still rather short. He was only maybe an inch or two taller than Sasha. "I can't help growing, Sasha."

"You're super skinny still, though," Sasha observed, pulling back and squeezing his ribs once more. "You don't eat much, do you?"

"They know you really well, don't they, Armin?" Jean asked, sounding amused. Armin had the grace to laugh, though he didn't appreciate being lectured on his eating habits.

"Your lock picking skills are still prime, I see," he observed, glancing at Mikasa's still open front door. "Once a hoodlum, always a hoodlum."

"Nah," Sasha laughed, shoving her hands into the pockets of her letterman jacket, which Armin knew belonged to Connie. "Not me, not ever! Besides, you always did way more illegal stuff than me."

Armin couldn't deny that. He saw Jean's eyebrows shoot up, and he wanted to laugh at how clearly Jean had misjudged Armin's capacity for rule breaking, but he didn't. Instead he asked about Connie.

"Oh, he's in the kitchen," Sasha said. She waved offhandedly, and the smell of cake got stronger, the sweetness becoming startling and warm. Vanilla stung his nose, and he could feel it burning at the back of his throat as his mouth watered. He was usually not one for sweets, but this was kinda a special occasion right? And he was awfully hungry from the trip. "He'd probably be done by now, but I ate his first cake."

"Cake?" Jean eyed her suspiciously. "You ate an entire cake?"

"He didn't feed me this morning, I was desperate." Sasha shrugged, and she tossed herself into one of Mikasa's old leather sofas, sinking deeply into the worn brown seat. "Ah, man, I kinda miss living here…"

"You hated living here." Mikasa seemed to be reminding Sasha, but Armin had no idea that Sasha had lived with Mikasa at all. That went to show how strangled their communication was as of late.

"Yeah, for good reason," Sasha muttered. "But I mean, aside from the spooky creaky noises and the bad vibes, I kinda miss this old place."

"Spooky?" Jean snorted. "How the fuck is this place spooky?"

Sasha stared at him, her brown eyes large and distant, and Armin glanced between her and Jean. He could tell that Sasha was weighing her options with Jean, possibly considering just ignoring him, but she didn't. She raised her chin high, gestured around the room with a grand sweep of her arm.

"This place," she said, "is most definitely cursed."

"Cursed." Jean was on the verge of laughter, his eyes squinted and his lips quirked into a smirk. "Wow. Right, okay." He had his camera in hand, Armin noticed, and he realized it was likely recording.

"I'm serious," Sasha said darkly, her eyes darting furiously at Jean's face. "Mikasa thinks so too! Tell him Mikasa!"

Armin's dear friend merely looked bored as she dragged Armin's bags into the room, shutting the front door behind her. She shrugged meagerly.

"It's cursed," she said simply.

"Whoa, whoa, back up." Jean set his camera down on the coffee table, angling it subtly so it faced all of them. "Explain."

Mikasa sighed, and she glanced down the hall and tipped herself back so she could see through it and into the kitchen. Then she focused on them again.

"It's just a superstition," she said. "But my grandfather killed himself downstairs in the shop, and my great grandfather supposedly was pushed down the stairs by my grandfather. But I don't really know if either of those things are true, or if they're just stories meant to scare little children."

"I swear I've got a bad vibe from this place," Sasha said firmly. "I swear it. Especially Mikasa's room."

"Thanks," she said dully, rolling her eyes. "Thanks a lot."

"It feels like something crawled into the walls and is living in there."

"Now you're trying to give me nightmares," Mikasa sighed, closing her eyes. "It's really not that bad, but the apartment is old so there are a lot of eerie noises you'd expect to hear from an old place like this. Creaky floorboards, squeaky faucets, rusty pipes, settling walls. I've been trying to save money to get it fixed up."

"Start with your room," Sasha suggested. "It needs the most work."

Mikasa merely sighed again, looking actually irritated. Then she looked suddenly very alarmed, and she glanced at Sasha with widening eyes. "Wait," she said vacantly, turning around and tilting her head. "How'd you guys get past The Captain?"

"The what?" Jean asked flatly.

"Uh…" Sasha sunk further into her seat, and she kicked her feet up. "He was sleeping… when we came in…"

A shrill shriek came drifting into the room, riding on the waves of the sweet scent of a baking cake.

"Well," Mikasa said, "he's not sleeping anymore."

They all glanced at each other, and with that they bolted into the hall, and through the hall they reached Mikasa's small kitchen. The tiles were uneven, black and white and yellowed with age, and there were ugly wooden paneled walls that Mikasa had sworn and sworn again she'd rip out one day. The smell of cake was intoxicating, and the overwhelming heat of the room dazed Armin and so he hardly noticed Connie crouched on Mikasa's table, looking rather miserable as a Chihuahua hopped up on its hind legs and barked at him furiously.

"I hate your dog," Connie told Mikasa flatly, his dark face pinched in irritation. Mikasa merely whistled.

"Captain," she called. The dog halted his attack, and cocked his head back at Mikasa, his ears flattening. It trotted to Mikasa's side obediently, and Connie sighed in relief. "Good Captain."

"The Captain is a pretty terrible guard dog," Armin observed, kneeling to rub the tiny dog's head. The Captain was pretty amiable, in spite of his treatment of Connie, so long as Mikasa was around. He let Armin scratch behind his ears, his big brown eyes drooping closed in blatant pleasure. Armin smiled at him as he crawled into his lap, nuzzling his palm.

"Sure!" Connie cried, jumping down from the table. "Sure, he likes you! Where the fuck has that dog even been for the past few hours?"

"He's a heavy sleeper," Mikasa said. "He's old, you know."

As Armin understood it, Mikasa had adopted The Captain from a shelter a few years before, but he'd been old even _then_. Half his right ear was torn away, and he was blind in one eye, most likely, but he still had the strength to bark like a fucking German Shepherd if it came down to it.

"Yeah, well," Connie sniffed, "if he's not careful, I'm gonna make a hot dog outta him."

"Good luck with that."

"So you're… Connie?" Jean tilted his head. "Yeah, I've seen pictures of you, I think."

"Yeah, you're Jean, hi." Connie waved, and he wandered over to the oven, opening it up and peeking in. "Do you like whiskey cake?"

"I've never tried it, but it sounds baller," Jean admitted, his eyebrows rising. He shot a glance at Armin, who merely shrugged. The last time Armin had seen Connie he'd been going for a business degree, and before that it'd been linguistics, and before that human anatomy, and before that… graphic design? Possibly.

"Good, because I had to actually slave over this thing," Connie said, scowling at Sasha. "Thanks to _someone_. Who shall not be named. Because I'm just nice like that."

"You aren't nice at all." Sasha pouted.

Connie pulled a pan out of the over one-handedly with a towel, and he tossed it onto a hot pad that rested on the old granite countertop. He kicked the oven closed, and whirled to face Armin. Then he smiled, and Armin smiled back, and they high fived once before hugging. Armin wasn't incredibly affectionate, not really, but Connie was someone Armin had not seen in a very long time, and they'd once been close.

"How's the outside world been treating you?" Connie asked eagerly.

"Pretty well," Armin said, though he didn't know if he was being truthful. "You guys should try it."

"If we could afford it," Sasha snickered.

"That's a good point," Armin admitted. "I'll probably be here for a little while for the same reason, though."

"Aha," Connie scoffed, dragging out a chair and plopping down. "Hypocrite."

"But, yeah, I'm doing fine," he said. This one might've been a lie too. "How are you guys?"

"Meh." Connie waved his hand in mid-air, designating casual so-so. Sasha just smiled, and shrugged.

"I'm great," she beamed. "Connie takes cooking classes, and it's the best thing ever because now he's constantly cooking, and you know what that means?"

"Food?" Jean asked blandly.

"YES!" Sasha punched the air. "Finally those years and years of friendship have proved to be constructive."

"I hate you a lot," Connie groaned. "No cake for you!"

"I'm just teasing," Sasha laughed, glancing at him. Connie glanced back, and he groaned some more. "Mostly."

"Do you guys want some beers?" Mikasa asked suddenly.

"Yes," Jean said immediately. "Fucking yes."

"Sure," Connie said.

"Yeah!"

Armin stood, feeling awkward and a little ashamed that he didn't really like alcohol. "Uh, okay," he said very quietly, shoving his hands into his pocket. Mikasa shot him a glance as she walked to the fridge. When she turned again, she tossed three bottles of beer on the table, and two bottles of coke. Armin was overwhelmed with affection for her in that moment, and he might've thanked her if there weren't so many people around, so instead he smiled at her gratefully, and uncapped the coke bottle.

They ended up sitting in a circle on the kitchen floor eating whiskey cake, which was actually very good and very sweet, though the alcohol had an almost overwhelming presence at the moist, spongy center. They ended up playing a friendly game of Never Have I Ever.

"Never have I ever smoked a cigarette," Sasha chirped. Jean groaned and grabbed the bottle of sangria from the center of their little circle and took a nice long gulp.

"Fuck," he mumbled, wiping his lips and passing the bottle to Mikasa. "I'm down to three."

"Two," Mikasa said, taking a swig from the bottle. She glanced at Armin, who reluctantly took it, and took a sip. It was a sweet taste, and it ran warm like blood down his throat, and he didn't like it at all. He set the bottle back down at the circle, and Connie did not object.

He remembered one late spring afternoon Mikasa had come to them with a pack of cigarettes, and she'd declared that she was going to smoke all of them. Armin had advised against it, but when he'd realized her reasoning he understood. He still thought it was a terrible idea, and told her to just throw them in the river, but she was adamant. So the three of them had smoked the pack, and felt very sick afterwards. But they'd done it together.

Armin didn't really smoke, and Eren hadn't much either, but he knew Mikasa had a nasty habit of doing it if she had a chance. She was good at control, however.

"My turn, huh?" Jean looked miserable. "I don't even know. Never have I ever given a blow job."

"Nice," Armin said. "I don't believe it."

Jean threw a plastic fork at him, and it went sailing over his head.

Everyone sat silently.

"Wow," Connie said. "We're prudes."

"Never have I ever _received_ a blow job," Mikasa said.

"God damn it." Jean grabbed the bottle and tipped it back, holding up two fingers as he gulped down another swig.

"Never have I ever…" Armin sat, feeling silly and unfit for this game. He felt their eyes on him, felt the heat of their stares as they wormed their way into his thoughts and fed on his soul, and he was scared to think too loudly in the gnawing paranoia that they might somehow hear his burning self-hatred. "Jumped into Titan's Maw. From the cliffs, at least."

Jean glanced around, face flushed from the heat of the wine. Sasha and Connie glanced at each other, and they shrugged.

Mikasa tentatively reached for the bottle, saying nothing. She grasped it and held it for just a moment, looking a little dazed. And then she threw it back, taking a very long gulp.

"Shit," Jean muttered. Sasha and Connie merely looked confused as Mikasa set the bottle back down.

"One," she said dully. "I'm going to lose."

"Or win," Connie offered. "Depending how you look at it."

"When did you jump into Titan's Maw?" Armin asked her, feeling eager but sick. She shrugged.

"I don't know," she said. "A few years ago. I guess. Connie?"

"Never have I ever had a one night stand."

Everyone's eyes trailed to Jean. This time, however, he merely shrugged.

"Nope," he said. "Surprise, I'm not that slutty."

"You're not even a little slutty," Armin said. "You're mostly a virgin."

Jean's cheeks flushed, and he opened his mouth. Then he closed it. "Don't go spreading that shit around," he squeaked.

"Don't go telling people the truth, you mean?" Armin offered.

"God damn it, man!"

"I wanna know what the mostly is all about." Connie grinned.

"Oh," Armin said, smiling a bit. "Well—"

"No," Jean said, sounding a little desperate and a little drunk. "No, no, no, no, no, no."

Armin felt guilty, so he glanced at Connie, and he smiled and shrugged. "I actually don't know the details," he lied. "I heard them from Marco." Another lie. Armin hardly spoke to Marco, even when he visited Jean. But the others bought it, knowing Marco from the various stories Jean had told over the course of the night.

"Okay, never have I ever…!"

It went on like that.

By the time Sasha and Connie left it was very late, and the sky was inky and black, and Armin was slightly buzzed so he wasn't in any particular mood at all. Alcohol affected him strangely, never quite altering his personality so much as it wiped it away all together. When Armin drank, he felt like he'd just had a lobotomy. He didn't like the person he became, because that person was very blunt and dull and brutally analytical. As Armin understood it, it was difficult to hold back all the things he wanted to spill when he was under the influence of some substance, so he just spouted things while hardly feeling more than brief twinges of wariness.

He really did not like alcohol.

"You were with Eren that night," Armin informed Mikasa curtly as she gathered all the glass bottles at the side of her sink. Jean had passed out on the couch about an hour before, and the kitchen was hot and dark now, shadows dancing across the mismatched tile and Mikasa's pretty face. She looked at him, and her eyes were smudges in the yellow light.

"I was," she admitted, picking up the emptied bottle of sangria by its neck.

A chilly silence spread out between them. Armin felt like he should be surprised, but he felt very little, and he was very tired. He watched her, wondering if he'd known all along and had just been pretending and lying to himself to keep the resentment from crawling through him like a weed out to choke the life from him.

"You never said anything," he said. "You wanted to, I think, but you didn't. Why is that, Mikasa?"

She stood, empty bottle in hand, and Armin understood that she was just as sad and lonely as he was.

"I was scared," she whispered.

He wanted to doubt that, because this was Mikasa he was talking to, but because it was Mikasa he understood that there were certain things he often forgot when it came to her. Like, for instance, that she was just as human as he was. She got scared too.

"Of what?" he urged her. "Of me? Of telling me? Or of what happened?"

She turned her eyes to him, and in the dimness he saw them flash with remorse.

"I don't know what happened, Armin," she said, her voice thick. She wasn't drunk, he didn't think, but she was clearly tipsy and a little more distraught than he'd been expecting. "That night was a blur. I try not to remember."

"So you're telling me you repress your memories," he clarified. She blinked at him dazedly.

"Maybe," she said, setting the wine bottle aside and bowing her head. "I don't really know. I'm sorry, I… I know it doesn't help you, or— or Eren. But I can't really say what exactly happened."

"Tell me, at the very least," Armin whispered, "what Eren wanted to show us."

Mikasa stared at him, and when he looked into her eyes he saw two sad, inky blots sinking into her skull. She looked tired, and he expected that she was more exhausted than him considering her job. He wanted to leave her alone, but he was just so curious, and all his emotions seemed to have shut off.

"I never got the chance to find out," she said quietly. She turned away from him, facing the sink and turning on the faucet. "I'm sorry, Armin."

"No," he said. "It's fine. I'm sorry for bothering you about it."

"You could never bother me."

He wanted to object, but he didn't feel up to arguing, and it simply didn't feel right. There was a squirming emptiness here, in the room, and he felt it burn him and brand him, marking him up and leaving him lost. There was a hollow space here between them. Eren's presence made everything seem clearer, and his absence made the world thick and stifling and gauzy beyond belief.

"I think I'm going to go to bed now," he told her, turning his back to her. She nodded, not looking up as she began to scrub at the dishes, the sound of rushing water thudding in his ears. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she said. "Your bedroom is right next to mine. If you can't find it, then shout for me."

"I think I know it."

He didn't know why she'd lie to him, and worst of all he couldn't tell if she was lying. He felt sick, which was not very good, and tired which was also not very good, because he had so much work to do and not much time to do it. He had an entire investigation to get through, and Mikasa's testimony was just about useless. Meaning Armin was going to need to snoop around until he found proof that she wasn't lying. Or maybe that she was. He hoped so very badly she wasn't lying to him, but he couldn't tell. She was difficult to read, even for him.

He trudged to Mikasa's room, dragging his suitcase along with him, and he felt a sense of déjà vu as the yellow hallway tilted and the walls seemed to lean in toward him hopelessly, seeming to be drunker than him. He felt a bit disoriented, and he nearly called for Mikasa, but it occurred to him that he'd bothered her enough for one night. He shouldered the door he was almost positive was his open, flicking on a light and feeling nauseous as he tossed his bags onto the ground.

The room was more spacious than Mikasa's, which struck him as odd. It looked to be almost as though this room was a main bedroom, for it actually fit a queen sized bed as well of a comfortable amount of furniture. It was empty and sad looking, recently cleaned and still smelling of bleach and Kleenex. On the off-white walls there were little tacks of tiny, colorful feathers, which Armin thought was odd. As he examined them more closely, he realized they were fishing hooks. There were three of them, each a different color, each designed a little differently, each unique and odd and out of place in this room. He touched one tentatively, the green tackle a little misshapen and bizarre.

There was also a rather large painting on the wall that he glanced at, and felt an immense amount of anxiety.

The paint was old, faded strokes of pale paint darting the center, a splash of white and gray and pink, greens smudged into the background and browns into the foreground, flesh and grass and ropes. The faces were vague little blotches of color dotting the canvas, and the expressions were nonexistent. The knife was there, the angel, the stars marring the sky with more stinging clarity than the entirety of the painting combined.

For some odd reason, there was a painting of the biblical binding of Isaac in his room.

Weird.

Armin dismissed it at first, flopping onto his bed and groaning. He wished he could forget about the entire investigation, but he just… could not abandon Eren. Not again.

He closed his door and began to undress, but his eyes kept falling back to that painting, and the knife, and the blotted out faces, and paranoia crept up on him. He found himself turning from the painting so his back faced it, and he changed into a loose tee shirt and shorts, tying his hair up in a messy bun before collapsing on his bed again and falling asleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night, another familiar swoop of anxiety coming over him. He ignored it, curling up in his blankets as a chill took over, slipping over him and caressing his bare skin. Normally Armin had trouble sleeping, but it helped that he'd been on a train for a significant amount of the day, and then gotten slightly drunk. He quickly fell asleep again.

When he woke up the next morning from a dreamless sleep, his head was pounding and he felt sick again. He noted the shimmer of daylight streaming in through his window.

Then, curiously, he noted the two hooks on the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

**what was whispered in his ear**

The rocks were slimy and mossy beneath his toes, and as the water coagulated at his ankles he felt himself sway pitifully, wobbling against the rush and finally succumbing to gravity, his heel scraping against a particularly slick gray rock, and he shrieked as he felt his stomach lurch into his throat, his body plummeting backwards into the river's steady current.

He was caught around the waist, his toe stubbing painfully against a jutting rock as his descent was halted suddenly. He realized he was not breathing, and he inhaled sharply, the spray and the mist of the guttering water hitting his face. The hem of his jeans, which he'd rolled up to his knees, were damp and clinging to his upper calves. He was leaning heavily against Eren's chest for support, and he felt foolish and inadequate.

"You okay?" Eren had asked him, hefting him upright. Mikasa was at their sides in a flash, her skirt hiked up to her upper thigh and her legs gleaming in the sunlight. She grasped Armin's arm, staring at him intensely, and he could sense the worry there. He flushed in shame and embarrassment, wishing they'd just let him fall in.

"I lost my shoes," he'd mumbled, staring at his white toes beneath the trickling stream. They'd stuck to the shallows of the river, to the places were rocks were abundant and the current was slow. It hadn't stopped the water from sweeping away his sneakers though.

"I see them," Mikasa had said. She left them then, gliding effortlessly across the slippery rocks and over spindly little twigs of bushes that had grown alongside the riverbank.

Of course Armin hadn't wanted to bother either of them with something so trivial as lost shoes, but he didn't know how he'd proceed without them. He should've just left them along the bank, or put them in someone's bag instead of carrying them around. He sighed, and he struggled along further into the stream, feeling unsteady on his feet. Eren followed behind him at a slow pace, carefully watching his own steps as well as Armin's.

"Hey!"

Armin looked up from his feet and the squishy soil between his toes, squinting into the mist of the stream as a large boy waved them over into the deeper, steeper part of the river just a few yards away. On both sides of them the banks of the river became two craggy walls that narrowed with every step. Armin climbed up onto a large gray rock, and he sat down there, not feeling confident enough to go farther.

Eren stopped beside the rock, glancing at Armin worriedly before Armin gave him a thumbs up. He leaned against the rock, jerking his chin at Reiner, and turning his attention back toward Mikasa.

"You're not having fun," Eren observed.

"I'm having a lot of fun," Armin had objected, surprised. "I just didn't dress appropriately. At all."

"Yeah, sorry," Eren said sheepishly. "I didn't realize we were coming here until like, half an hour ago."

"It's fine," Armin said. "I've just never actually been this far out into the river before."

"It's not so bad," Mikasa said, appearing behind them and resting Armin's drenched sneakers on the rock beside him. "We're not even at the Maw yet, are we?"

"Nah," Eren said. His hair was damp with sweat, and it curled across his forehead in neat little wisps. He seemed to consider Mikasa's words, and he lifted his chin high. "Not that we really need to go to the Maw. There are little hollows here and there, y'know, deep enough to swim in."

"That's true," Mikasa said. Armin stared vacantly ahead of him as Reiner waved his arms at them. He understood what his friends were doing. They were making excuses so they could hang back with him. How typical of them.

He was too scared of falling to move, though.

How typical of him.

"Let's go," Armin said, though he made no move to get up. So Eren offered his arm. Armin glanced at him, and though he felt a bit inadequate, he grasped it.

"Shit!" Reiner cried as they approached him. "You guys are so slow, I think I grew a beard from standing here so long!"

"Your hair's too blond, Reiner," Mikasa said vacantly as they passed by him.

He stood in the midst of the splashing water, his hands on his hips and his expression wilting. "Hey," he said, rubbing his square jaw, and shooting her a sharp look. "I could still grow a beard, you know!"

"Sure."

"I could!"

"Don't do that," Eren said, helping Armin over a particularly slippery rock. "You'd look silly."

"Wow, you guys really love to boost my confidence."

Eren decidedly had ignored him. "What time do you need to be home, Mikasa?"

"I think I'm okay until about eight," she said. They'd come to a very narrow pass amongst the rocks and the crags and the underbrush, and Reiner waved them through it, squeezing his bulky body through the space with great ease.

"Okay," Eren said, "what time are you sneaking out after that?"

Armin had seen the corners of her lips quirk, though he was certain no one else would be able pick out such an insignificant change in her features. He was glad to be able to have this knowledge of his friend, to understand the inner workings of her mind while everyone else floundered to grasp Mikasa's personality.

"Ten," she said. She turned to both of them, her eyes twinkling. "I'll pick you two up."

"Awesome," Armin had said, genuinely thrilled. The illegality of the driving and the street races never bothered him so much as the idea of Mikasa risking her neck by sneaking out. But she always seemed to know how to get away, and it'd been awhile since anything extreme had happened.

Mikasa then disappeared through the gap in the crags, leaving Eren to nudge Armin lightly. He followed silently, holding onto the wet rock and pushing himself over the bumps and the pits and the splashing, spitting rush of water that crawled up to his knees depending on where he stepped. He felt a little dizzy and breathless, but Eren was just behind him, and holding his back as he moved through the darkened pass, gripping the rough walls and blinking through the mist.

He took a deep breath as he was delivered safely to the other side of the passage, right into the grips of an icy cascade of water. He didn't scream, for he'd seen the curtain of the waterfall from the darkened pass, but it shook him hard, and he nearly fell right into the great glimmering green depths of the pool that had formed from the secluded, rocky terrain around them.

"Holy shit!" Eren cried, bumping right into Armin as he ducked through the waterfall. Armin was drenched, and his white button down shirt was sticking to his scrawny chest. The air was very warm, but he'd decided to wear a plain oxford shirt that day, rolling up the sleeves as he tended to do when it was too warm. He stood in the frothy pool, a waterfall beating at his back, and a boy clinging to his shoulders, and he'd felt oddly refreshed. Awakened, even, as though from a trance.

This was Titan's Maw.

It was beautiful, of course, and rather peaceful.

It was hard to imagine this place could be so dangerous.

Connie and Sasha were already swimming, splashing around in the glittery green water and laughing hysterically as they tried to push each other under. Reiner was jumping some rocks to get to Bertholdt, who was sitting on a boulder, wearing a mild expression. Armin had heard from Connie that Bertholdt couldn't swim, but he wasn't sure if he believed that.

Armin saw Mikasa standing on another dry rock, which had a pile of slightly damp clothing on it. He wandered over to her, careful not to slip again, and he rested his useless shoes on top of what he assumed was Connie's old track sweatshirt. He watched as Mikasa began to strip, swiping off her shirt in one movement, and tugging off her skirt, until she was standing in nothing but her bra and underwear. He wasn't sure what to do, because he had a crippling shyness when it came to revealing his body— something neither of his friends shared, to be certain. Eren was ripping off his shirt faster than Armin could blink.

Hesitantly, Armin began to unbutton his shirt, flushing from his discomfort and embarrassment. Mikasa's eyes were roving between both of them curiously, and Eren merely looked excited to finally be doing something. He was standing in nothing but his boxers, his dark skin a bit mismatched from unfortunate midsummer tan lines and pale scars. Mikasa was no different, though her tan was more of an actual tan and less like Eren's skin tone going from brown to _really_ brown, and her scars were more prominent and more frightening. Armin didn't want to stare, but it was difficult for his eyes to not land on the long, jagged mark that traced her abs, or the angry burn near her pelvis, or the faded traces of white lines dragging across the dip of her spine and beneath the white cotton of her bra.

"Is something wrong, Armin?" Mikasa asked, looking so very concerned, and it made his stomach squirm a little. He smiled at her wanly, and he shook his head, peeling his shirt from his sticky skin and folding it up as neatly as he could manage with the thin, wet cloth. Eren was watching Armin now as well, observing his careful movements without really expressing what he was thinking, merely giving it a long, absent look.

"Guys," Eren said, tilting his head back toward the sun. "It's _hot_."

"Yes, Eren, fabulous observation." Mikasa's eyes were still solely on Armin. "Great job."

"I'm gonna push you in," he threatened her, though there was an airiness to his voice that had made Armin giggle as he struggled with his wet jeans.

"That's fine," Mikasa said. "Do you need help, Armin?"

He shook his head furiously, utterly mortified at the idea of Mikasa needing to help him out of his trousers. Like that wasn't awkward, or anything. Eren seemed to be ignoring Armin's struggle for that very reason, which he was thankful for.

Finally he got his jeans around his ankles, and he kicked them off into the water, dreading the moment when he'd need to put them back on. He probably would've been better off swimming in them. So he picked them up out of the water and laid them out on the rock to dry, feeling naked and anxious in spite of the fact that he was wearing dark boxers, and he was far from being actually nude. There was just the gnawing crawl of vulnerability that was clearly absent in his friends, and he wished for their courage and their self-assurance, for the confidence he sorely lacked, and for the simple way they took the world and its trials in a stride.

"Okay!" Eren cried, clapping both of them on the back. Armin smiled at him while Mikasa looked around them, sweat causing her hair to stick to her neck. "Do you guys wanna find a place to jump?"

"Not on your life," Armin said, feeling bold but firm on this point. He couldn't imagine jumping into such a rocky pool, which went from shallow to cavernous in a mere step.

Eren merely snorted. "Fine," he said. "Mikasa?"

"Let's not," she said, wading into the water where it was still shallow and clear, rocks of all shapes and sizes gleaming under her feet. Then, without warning, she disappeared. Her head was swallowed up by a small, spitting flume.

"Wow," Eren said, frowning. It was more like a pout than anything else. "That was fuckin' nice."

Armin smiled at him wider, and he decided to laugh at his expression in order to make it more prominent. He debated on grabbing Eren's hand and yanking him into the depths of the pool with him, but he was too reluctant to force Eren to step on the more slippery rocks beneath them. So instead Armin stepped off the shallow rocks and let himself get devoured by a sucking vacuum of water.

When his head bobbed at the surface, he was in the middle of the pool and kicking furiously to stay upright. Water stung his eyes, cold like the splash of the waterfall, but less like getting knifed in the face several times, which was nice. He took a deep breath, and a cicada began to wail somewhere nearby.

He spotted two heads of damp blonde hair, and he decided to go to them, leaving Eren to call something to Reiner, and Reiner to call something back, leaving the both of them to their odd, outspoken antics.

"Hi, Armin," Christa said to him as he swam closer to her. She was sitting on a rock with her legs dipped in the water, her shorts high-waisted. She looked as though she'd been swimming, but had decided to get dressed again. "I haven't seen you in awhile. How are you?"

"I'm good," Armin said, though he didn't understand what she meant, because they'd seen each other only maybe a week before at some charity event. It was a well known secret that Christa's name was Historia Reiss, and she was the illegitimate daughter of the prime minister, but she didn't want anyone to know, so no one said anything.

Or, maybe it _wasn't_ a well known secret. It was hard for Armin to tell, honestly.

Beside Historia was Annie Leonhardt, whose hair was wet, and whose face was somber, and who wore an oversized purple tee shirt as she glowered into the greenish gorge. Annie was someone Armin actually had not seen all that summer, and he'd been surprisingly excited to see her severe face.

"Hello, Annie," he said, resting his arms against the rock she was sitting on. She glanced at him, and she nodded curtly.

Armin might've been a little disheartened if it were anyone else, but with Annie, little genial glances and gentle acknowledgements were incredibly rare, and he appreciated them for all they were worth.

"You fell too," Armin observed. She looked at him sharply, and he could tell that she was surprised by his assessment. He'd found himself flushing again, smiling wanly and trying to fix her attitude as quickly as he could. "I just mean, you don't look happy that you're all wet."

"I fell," she admitted, turning her eyes from his face. "And then Reiner threw me in."

"And he's still breathing?" Armin asked, unable to keep the genuine awe from his voice. He glanced at Reiner, who was now in the water and chatting amiably with Eren and Mikasa. He suddenly very badly wanted to go up to them, and to listen to what they were saying, but he refrained from that type of behavior, which made him feel clingy, as though he'd make them hate him at any given moment.

"Unfortunately," Annie said darkly.

"You know if he sinks to the bottom, they probably won't find him," Historia mused aloud. Armin glanced at her, and then glanced at the water. Annie seemed to consider this as Historia flushed, and tried to laugh off her morbid thoughts as a joke. Both Annie and Armin knew better, and luckily for her, they didn't care.

"That's a nice thought," Annie said. "But I can't think of anything heavy enough to weigh him down."

"Reiner!" Armin called, tilting his head back.

"Yeah?"

"How much do you weigh?"

"That's rude to ask!"

"Sorry!" Armin's voice had cracked in dismay. "But I'm really curious!"

"Well!" Reiner boomed. "If you really wanna know, I'm ninety five kilos!"

"Wow," Historia whispered, looking a little astounded. "That's a lot."

"Maybe compared to you," Annie said. Historia glanced at her, and then at Armin.

"I think it's a lot too," he offered.

"The both of you," Annie said. Armin was thankful she didn't breach the topic of his weight further than that.

From above, a sharp whistle rung inside their ears and pierced the heated air like a siren. Armin craned his neck to see above the jutting, pitted rock and the crags that stood like mountains around the small cavernous pool. Armin could not see the top, but he did see a small platform of rock a long way up, weathered out smooth in comparison to the rest of the sharp palisades.

"Yo!" Ymir cried, her fists on her hips and her face obscured by distance. Armin noticed she was fully clothed, which was unsurprising for Ymir, but he couldn't imagine how she felt in this heat, or how she was about to feel upon leaping from that rock.

"Oh boy," Historia muttered. She swished her feet around in the water, looking a little nervous and a little annoyed.

"You going to stop her?" Annie asked dully.

Historia shook her head, her lips thinning out into a line. "If she wants to break her neck, that's none of my business," she said. "Similarly, if it were me up there, I wouldn't want Ymir to stop me."

_She probably would, though,_ Armin thought, though he didn't share it with her.

"That's not really all that high," Armin said, squinting up at the rock. "Lots of people jump from there normally, I think, and it's about as safe as you're going to get here."

"That's good to know…" Historia said quietly.

"You lazy a-holes should get this on video," Ymir called from her perch, bouncing on her heels. "Just saying!"

"Just jump!" Connie bellowed through his hands. Ymir looked at him, and Armin thought she'd flip him off, but she didn't.

Instead she jumped.

She jumped, and Armin watched, his stomach lurching in horror in spite of knowing her odds, and knowing she'd land perfectly in the center of the pool, and knowing that she was fine even as the collision of her body against the water cracked like a bullet, melting with the cry of cicadas and crickets and some obscure bird twittering in a nearby tree. Armin had been holding his breath when Ymir resurfaced, her sweater billowing around her and her hair plastered to her face.

She threw her head back and laughed.

* * *

><p>"Mikasa," Armin said the next morning, "how many fish hooks are supposed to be on my wall?"<p>

"What," Jean groaned, his cheek resting on his arm as he stared at Armin incredulously, "the fuck kind of question is that…?"

"I'm just curious," he said, cleaning up the space around Mikasa's counter as she flipped a pancake in a griddle. She didn't look especially concerned, her focus on their breakfast and not so much on his words. Jean had already declared he was not hungry, because his hangover was too intense.

"I'm surprised the fish hooks is what you're asking about," she said, "and not the painting."

"That's pretty creepy too, not gonna lie."

"Yeah, I know," she said. "I hate it."

"So," Armin said amusedly, "naturally you put me in there."

"Jean's a guest," she said flatly, dumping the pancake onto a plate. "He gets the least creepy room by default."

"I'm not a guest?" he teased her, though he felt a little hurt by the comment in truth. She glanced at him, and she handed him the plate.

"No," she said, staring fervently into his eyes.

_Oh_, he thought dumbly as she turned away. He understood. _I'm not a guest to her_.

He was family.

A small smile was stuck upon his face as he set the plate down at the table. Jean was still resting his head on his arm, and he glared up at Armin. "What are you so happy about?" he asked.

"Oh," Armin said, his smile widening, "I'm just really glad I'm not hungover. It must really suck, huh?"

"Go fuck yourself."

"How are you holding up?" he asked Mikasa, noting her glare. She wanted him to eat, but he wasn't particularly hungry.

"I wasn't drunk," she said. "So I'm not hungover. Go eat."

"Okay," he said, not wanting to get on her bad side. "What time does the shop open, again?"

"Eight," she said. "Technically. But I don't really get down there until nine, and no one cares. Unless there's an emergency."

"I want to sleep," Jean moaned.

"You did," Armin reminded.

"Somewhere not a coach, please."

"Then you shouldn't have passed out there," Mikasa said.

"God fuckin'…"

"So do you two have anything on the agenda for the day?" she asked.

"Sleep," Jean mumbled. Armin ignored him.

"I'm gonna go out into town, I think," he said. "Look around, catch up on stuff I've missed. At least, I'm hoping to, anyway."

"That's good," Mikasa said. "Go eat breakfast."

"Yeah, okay." He dug through her cabinet drawer for a fork. "Your organizational skills are lacking. Big time."

"Haven't gotten to the kitchen yet," she said.

"I can do it," he offered.

She glanced at him. Then, she shrugged. "If you want," she said, though he could sense that she was grateful.

"It's the least I can do," he admitted, plopping down at the table. "Considering I can't really contribute financially right now."

"Broke ass bitch," Jean said, pointing at him. Armin very carefully pushed Jean's finger away, shaking his head.

"Go lay down, Jean," he said.

"I'm hungry," he objected.

"No you're not."

Jean scowled. But he did sit upright and sigh very loudly. "I feel like the older I get, the lower my tolerance for alcohol becomes."

"That's very sad," Armin said.

Jean frowned at him, and he stood up, leaving the room without another word. Armin allowed himself to feel triumphant. He began to eat slowly, mechanically, his hand moving and his mind wandering. He didn't like letting his mind wander, because it always returned to Eren, and he could just feel his chest clench up, and his breath grow short, and he didn't want to think about those things. They scared him.

"You aren't using syrup?"

Mikasa sat down beside him, offering him a tiny pot of maple syrup. He stared at it, minutely confused, because he honestly had not even thought of it. "Ah," he said weakly. "Sure."

They sat and ate quietly for a few minutes, the sound of scraping forks and knives filling his ears and head, keeping his mind from trailing to unsavory thoughts. He was so thankful for her. But even so, the thought that she might've lied to him the night before was weighing on him, pressing him to the ground and breathing down his neck. He didn't want to suspect his best friend of anything, but how could he not when it was so clear that she was hiding something? She didn't want to talk to him about it, fine, but this was Eren. Their best friend. He'd been missing for years. How could she act as though it hadn't happened?

"You slept okay?" Mikasa asked.

"Yes," he said, uncertain about the question. He considered it for a moment, and leaned back. "Actually, better than usual, honestly. I only woke up once."

Mikasa studied him warily. "You wake up a lot at night?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. "It's not big deal," he said. "It's just a matter of getting my brain to stop pedaling out new theories, I think. It's weird."

She nodded. He realized he was finished with his breakfast, and he set his fork down, staring at her as intently as she stared at him. There was never any discomfort between them. They knew each other too well.

"Listen," she said, taking his plate before he could object. "You're free to wander all around the house and the town, I don't really care. But don't go in the crawlspace."

"What?" Armin tilted his head at her curiously as she dumped their plates in the sink. "The one Eren and I hid in when we were little?"

"Yes, that one."

Armin had been wondering about it, but he'd been hesitant to bring up the subject. "Okay," he said. "I won't go in there, I guess? Is there a particular reason, though?"

"I don't want you getting hurt," she said simply. She met his gaze, and he found himself startled by how genuinely determined she was on getting him to stay away from the crawlspace.

"Sure," he said. "Okay."

"Thank you," she said. And with that, she left the room, leaving him to feel bemused and uncertain.

He ended up sticking around the kitchen to wash the dishes, and she found him a little later, her hair damp and twisted up at the back of her head in a stubby little bun. She was wearing a pair of faded, beaten up shorts and a black tank top. She watched him as he worked at scrubbing the residual grease off the griddle, and he turned to look at her as he felt the heat of her stare.

"What?" he asked.

"You didn't have to—" she began.

"Go to work," he said, scrubbing at the bottom of the griddle more furiously.

She stood in the doorway, and he could sense that she wanted to say more, but she didn't know how. And so she nodded. And she turned away. "I'll be downstairs," she said.

"Okay."

He was left to his own prickly thoughts and awful suspicions, so he quickly turned the faucet off, standing with white knuckles gripping the edge of the sink. He had to think very hard. He certainly didn't suspect Mikasa of doing anything to Eren, but he wouldn't put it past her to lie for his benefit— to shield him from an awful truth. If she knew something, and she knew it would hurt him, she would keep it from him.

So he was left to the task of weeding out the truths and the lies. Firstly, he knew that Mikasa had gone with Eren into the woods that night. And in part, she remembered and regretted it. And then there was the crawlspace. That part was particularly jarring. Why on earth was the crawlspace dangerous? If Armin remembered correctly, it was a cramped tunnel that led through the walls of the old apartment, down into the auto shop below. It was how Mikasa used to sneak out to go to drag races.

Armin quickly dried the dishes, stacking them on the counter beside the sink before heading toward his room to get changed. He was halfway through the process of getting dressed, his jeans on but his tee shirt wilting in his hands as he glanced at the painting on his wall. It wasn't so eerie now in the daylight, but the obscure strokes and the sheer size of it made Armin squirm. He set his shirt aside, walking up to the painting and lifting on the sides of it.

It did not budge.

Armin stared at the painting. He felt momentarily alarmed, but he shook it off quickly, feeling the lining of the painting and running his fingers up the seam between the frame and the canvas, his skin gliding over bumpy strokes of paint until finally he felt something tiny and metal and cold.

Someone had nailed the painting to the wall.

He whirled away from the painting, his mind working fast to piece together this oddity, and he came to a conclusion that he did not like, and that made him feel very anxious. And very suddenly unsafe. He grabbed his tee shirt, tugging it over his head and snatching a plaid button down that he was pretty sure had once been Eren's from the floor. He stuffed it into a messenger bag that held, amongst other things, a camera, several books (including _Parables of Sina_, which he'd taken from the coffee table), and a jackknife set.

"Where are you going?" Jean called from the couch as he passed the living room.

"The police station," Armin replied, kicking on his sneakers. He twisted his hair up into a messy bun, glancing at his friend curiously. "You're welcome to come if you're feeling up to it."

"I'm not feeling up to much, right now, bud."

"Suit yourself." Armin opened the front door, blinking dazedly into the misty morning sunlight. It was a very cold spring day, and he wished he'd brought a jacket besides Eren's old flannel shirt. He shivered, gripping the strap of his bag tightly as he headed down the rickety metal stairs and headed out from the garage parking lot. He walked from there, hunched over from the chill, but appreciating the feeling of the biting early air, and the fog that drifted along all around him. Luckily for him he knew where he was going.

He'd been to the Shiganshina Police Department a little too often for comfort, and it wasn't too far from Mikasa's shop. In truth, Shiganshina was small enough that nothing was truly too far from anything. And anyway, Armin liked walking. It kept him alert, and gave him time to think, but made him move enough that he didn't over-analyze.

He had lots of things to think and debate about. The painting. The crawlspace. The texts. The fact that Mikasa had not been where she'd said she'd been the night Eren had disappeared. It was all very strange, and Armin wondered if detective work was really what he was suited for. Certainly he could write dissertations blindfolded about gruesome crimes and the unfolding of such crimes and the aftermath and judicial processing of such crimes, but he'd never done real field work before. At least not on such an incredible scale. Eren's disappearance had rocked the entire town, and yet no one had an ounce of evidence as to where he was or what had happened to him.

Armin had a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought about the amount of time Eren had been missing. He knew how foolish it was to hope that Eren was still alive, but how could he not? How could he not wish for Eren's miraculous return, for a rescue of certain standards, for a twist of fate to leave them all breathless?

All he wanted was for Eren to be alive and okay somewhere. Maybe in Italy, or Belgium, or Turkey. Anywhere, really, so long as it wasn't in a ditch somewhere.

"Hi," Armin said as he walked up to the police department's front desk. "Um, my name is Armin Arlert, I actually used to live here." The woman at the desk was slender and young, with catlike eyes and a smile that he looked almost slimy and mischievous, like that of the Grinch. "I was wondering—"

His eye caught a quick flash of blonde hair as someone very small passed by him. His words trailed away inside his throat, trickling like rain on a leaf, and he swallowed thickly as Annie Leonhardt shot him a glance. He was not so shocked to see her, but to see her in uniform. He saw her assess him for a moment before her one visible eye widened momentarily.

"Yes?" the girl at the front desk asked. "You were wondering?"

"I…" Armin was struck by the sheer luck of the situation at hand. He kept his eyes directly on Annie, deliberately gauging the other girl's interest.

"He's here for me," Annie finally said. She turned directly to face him, and he wanted to smile but he kept on his dumbstruck act a little long than he anticipated. Perhaps he _was_ dumbstruck to see her.

"For you," the girl said dully. Her smirk pulled taut, and she pressed a primly manicured nail to her chin. "Well that's new. I didn't know you dug boys, Annie."

"At least the boys I dig are my age, Hitch," Annie retaliated.

"Rude," Hitch cooed.

Annie grabbed Armin by the collar and dragged him behind the front desk, much to his dismay, and through a series of cubicles until they reached a far corner. She all but threw him against the wall, her droopy blue eyes glued to his face, searching him wildly.

"Why are you here?" she asked him sharply.

He figured there was no point playing an act, but he understood he had to be careful here. Annie was clever, and she knew him well. Regardless of whether she actually thought him a friend or not, she'd be suspicious of him.

"Um," he said weakly, "what am I doing back in town, or what am I doing at the police station?"

"Both."

"Oh." He bit his lip, scratching absently at his knuckles. "Well, both are relative, so I might as well tell you. I'm investigating Eren's disappearance."

"You're not a detective," she said.

"I'm an aspiring investigative journalist," he countered.

"I didn't know that involved solving unsolved murder cases."

Armin did not bristle at the comment that Eren's disappearance was a murder. He was used to it by now. He did, however, shake his head. "Unless you have forensic evidence, you shouldn't classify it as a murder," he said.

"It was a joke," she said blankly.

"I don't really want to joke about Eren's disappearance, Annie," he murmured. She stared at him, silence blanketing them, and he could feel her sympathy growing just by the length of time she held his gaze.

"You're here because you want answers," she clarified.

"Well, yes…" He pressed his back up against the wall, noting that some people were staring. "I had no idea you worked here."

"You don't keep in touch."

"I've been busy…"

"Yeah."

He stared at her, wondering if he'd ever understand her fully, and her him. They were creatures of bad habit, the both of them, and they both understood themselves at least to a fault. He loved being around Annie, but he always felt intimidated by her. Likewise, he understood she had a fondness for him that she didn't often show towards others. It was something he intended to use.

"I'm sorry to spring this on you so suddenly," he blurted. "If I'd known, I would've planned this out better— caught you at the coffee shop or something."

"Pretend to run into me while I'm half-asleep," Annie said, taking a sip from her coffee cup as if to prove a point. "Smart."

"I was just hoping someone here might have some idea about what happened with Eren's investigation," Armin continued. "I never expected to run into you."

"Yeah, well…" She lifted her chin, staring down her long nose at him. As though he were the short one. "Here I am."

"The uniform looks nice," he offered. She gave him a look. "I-I'm serious! You look all official. It's nice."

"Thanks," she said warily. "I guess." She looked down at her shoes, clearly flustered, and he wondered if she was playing coy or if she was really very shy about her appearance. "Eren didn't really get an investigation, by the way."

"What?" Armin asked flatly.

Annie shrugged, staring at her coffee. "Yeah, I know," she sighed. "I was angry when I found out too. When I asked why, I was given some bullshit excuse about there not being enough manpower, or something, and since Dot Pixis retired right in the middle of the investigation, there just wasn't any motivation here. It was a mess. The Jaegers could probably file a lawsuit, honestly."

Armin wondered why they hadn't, but part of him knew why. They'd given up on finding Eren a long time ago.

"So they at least tried," he said desperately, his mind racing and his heart pounding and his eyes growing wider and wider as he realized what this meant for Eren. He _could_ be dead. Who fucking knew?

"If you call that trying," Annie said dully.

"So an investigation did happen," he said. "It was just never resolved. Right?"

"Yeah…?" She eyed him suspiciously. "You want the file."

He stared down at her, biting the inside of his cheek and smiling sheepishly. She shook her head, and took a swig of coffee. He knew she was debating it, but it still made his insides squirm at how difficult it was with her. She looked around her, and a phone rang somewhere amongst the cubicles.

"Meet me at the café on Maria Street on my lunch break," she said finally. She was staring at her coffee cup sullenly.

"Thank you," he breathed. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Yeah." She looked at him. He could tell she was dying to say something, her mouth parting and her feet shuffling. But she didn't. She turned away from him. "I have to go to work."

"Right."

She paused to consider her words. She turned to face him again.

"I'm already at work," she said absently.

"Yes."

"You're the one who should go."

"Also yes."

"Move your ass, Arlert."

"Of course," he said, nodding to her curtly. "I'm sorry I bothered you, I really—"

"Armin," she warned. "We'll talk later."

He flushed, and nodded again. "Right, right."

Talking to Annie again made him feel somewhat content, as though things were a little normal in spite of the enormous rift he felt spanning between him and his old home. Annie had always been distant, so their conversation had merely been a step into old habits, tossing words and baiting one another, a game of wits and whims that never seemed to lead to a winner.

Armin left the station, throwing a glance at Hitch when she wolf whistled at him. It was a little uncomfortable, so he adjusted the strap of his bag and hurried into the street, a wet breeze kissing his cheeks upon stepping outside. He stood for a moment, holding his hand out to watch the drizzle of drops gather inside the creases of his palms.

_Eren might be dead_, Armin thought, his stomach clenching up to the point where his breath was stuck inside his throat, and it was a struggle to inhale, the thick, chilly air suspended somewhere within him. It wasn't easy to get himself off that terrible train of thought, to stagger forward and let the thought fall behind, but he did it, and once he did he was able to breathe a bit better, and see a little clearer, and he let the march of his feet and the mist of rain upon his cheeks be the only thoughts inside his cluttered brain.

He went down through a snaking alley, recalling the lazy days and the laughter and the lies, and he wondered. Where had the time gone? He crouched before an old brick wall, feeling the pits in the grout and pressing his lips together to beat down a nostalgic smile. He and Eren had decided to steal a brick from this building, hollow it out, and then return it to the wall.

"Like _The Secret Garden_," he'd said, pulling a knife from his little boot and stabbing at the grout without any care in the world. Armin had merely watched, enthralled, and nodded vaguely, though he could not remember if anything like this had happened in _The Secret Garden_.

They'd marked the brick with their initials, carving the letters shakily into the rough red surface. The E was jagged, and the J was squiggly, and the double A's were a bit short and stubby. Armin sat squatting between a seedy bar and an antique shop that Historia worked at. He shimmied the brick loose. Flakes of red dust came coughing up into his face, and he bent on one knee, chewing the inside of his cheek uncertainly. Finally, after some maneuvering, the brick was pulled free from the wall.

He peeked into the hole they'd left, a rectangular space framed by chipped gray grout. He saw cobwebs. A fat little ant came inching toward Armin, and then pivoted away.

The hole was utterly empty.

What had he been thinking?

"Fuck," Armin spat, the brick weighing heavily in his hand. He tried to push it back into the wall, feeling foolish for imagining Eren might've left him something the night he'd disappeared. It was unlikely Eren would've even remembered this place by that point. He was such a hopeless fool.

A piece of paper slipped into his lap.

He dropped the brick, and it clattered against the asphalt, its hollow inside bare for Armin to see.

_Oh_, he thought numbly. _Right. We gutted it to make it more inconspicuous_.

Armin sat on his knees in the dingy alley, the rain stopping and starting in rapid intervals. He stared at the dirt smudged little note that had been folded half-heartedly and jammed inside the brick. It must have been dark when he'd done it. If he'd done it the night he'd disappeared.

He picked it up tentatively, holding it be the corners as though it were tissue paper, fragile and poised to rip apart at the slightest of pressure.

As he unfolded it, his heart was beating hard, and he was exhilarated from the very touch of this little slip of paper, jumped up on a high of adrenaline as Eren's old scritch-scratchy scrawl bled into Armin's eyes, sticking upon his brain and absorbing fast. He felt sick and shaky, his knuckles itching and his mouth dry.

He'd expected something like an explanation. _Armin_, it should've said. _I went into the woods for such and such reason. I know, I am a total idiot. If you're reading this, I expect I'm probably in the hospital or something. Or worse! That'd suck, shit, I'm sorry. You should've came, though_.

Instead he got two words.

_Falls._

_Bait._

_Eren,_ Armin thought dizzily. _Eren, what the hell were you doing?_

Armin stuffed the note into his pocket, breathless and terrified and shaking so badly that he wasn't certain he'd be able to stand up. So he sat on the floor of the alleyway, tears stinging his eyes, and he rocked back, and rocked forward, and blinked furiously as a heavy weight crushed his throat, leaving his head to pound away like an angry fist rapping at his skull.

He ripped open his bag, pulling out a small journal and a pen, writing fast upon it as miniscule droplets darkened the crisp yellow page.

_What happened to you, Eren?_

He tore the page out of the journal, swallowing thickly, painfully, his tears drying before they even hit his cheeks, and he folded it fast and stuffed it into the brick.

This was a moment where he understood the sheer incredulity of his situation. To think that Eren had thought of him at all that night, that he'd left a clue like this for Armin to find. Why had he not thought of it sooner? Why had it taken such sickening nostalgia to bring about this development?

Falls.

Falling?

Falls.

Titan's Maw.

Back to that.

Armin considered the time, and the weather, and he also considered how he was dressed.

He set out, his legs unsteady as he rounded a corner and began a breathless trek to the center of town. Where the Rose Bridge was.

The river was rough there, but it'd lead him to the two craggy rocks and through the passage.

He had time before he met Annie, didn't he?

Sure.

He headed toward the river, his thoughts in shambles and his mind hardly at ease. He wanted to scream, to run back to the apartment and tell Mikasa what he'd found, but he wasn't so certain about it, or about anything, and he needed a place to go and think. Why had Eren hidden that specific note? Why those two words?

Falls was something Armin understood, but Bait?

What was bait?

Ah, it was confusing.

He found himself standing at the edge of the bridge, watching the water shift and sway in the springtime breeze, raindrops biting tiny holes in its restless surface. The river was too wide here, so he'd have to follow it until it became rocky and volatile, thinned out by the bumpy terrain and the vicious twists and turns of the forest. He lowered himself onto a narrow rock path cut into the flood-wall, skirting the river with deliberate swiftness. He didn't want to keep Annie waiting, so he had to be quick.

_What was Eren thinking_, Armin wondered as he pulled off his sneakers and socks, stuffing them into his bag, _when he left me that note?_

Certainly the note was meant for him. As though Eren had known he would vanish in the woods that night, and he'd intentionally clued Armin in.

He was being too optimistic.

He was wasting his time.

The river was cold, and the air was bitter, and there was a heavy wetness just about everywhere. In the breath he breathed, in the soil beneath his toes, in his bleary vision as he kept his tears at bay. He was exhausted, and exasperated, and expecting too much from a world that did not play fair. He did not believe in fates or gods, but if he did, he didn't think any of them would take his side on this matter. He felt as though finding Eren was some unreachable bar, and he was standing on the ground with his hands outstretched toward the sky, fingers clenching and unclenching in a shivering shaft of light and shadow.

Untouchable, unspeakable, unsolvable.

Eren, Eren, Eren.

Unstoppable, unbreakable, unmovable.

Armin was scared that the boy he'd known for years and years, a lifetime of love and laughter and lingering longings, was gone forever.

And that was unbearable.

He climbed over the rocks with a greater ease than he had in years past, his feet finding purchase on the slimy stones in spite of his poor balance. He was careful of where he stepped, and quick to jump back upon land if the terrain called for it. Soon enough he was listening to the water roar around him, and the crags were lifted into he air, black jaws snarling outward toward him in the mist and the bog and the midmorning drizzle.

There had to be a better way than the darkened pass through the waterfall.

Armin stood, ankle deep in rushing water, his ears ringing from the din of the river and the hiss of the rain. The world seemed to be nothing but a damp, dark place, especially here, especially now, and he felt that nature was disagreeing with him as he took a look around and around, walls of rock and moss climbing up into the bleached out sky.

He understood the layout of Titan's Maw, and he also knew that the crags led up onto the cliffside that Ymir had once leapt from, an uneven platform of slippery stones and dangerous palisades. Armin waded to the edge of the riverbank, finding a nice, elevated stone that was easy to climb upon. He dropped his bag there, not particularly worried about thieves, considering the time of day and the weather and the town's reputation. Honestly, if anyone were to steal from him, it'd be Ymir, Historia, or Annie, and he thought it unlikely that any of them would be there.

He wiggled his wet toes, scraping them against the rock until they felt dry, and then he began to climb. The cliff was like a series of sharp indents, and then sharp jutting stones, sharp, sharp, oh so sharp, discolored and mossy and hard to hold onto. Armin was scared, but he kept himself climbing, his feet moving and his fingers scratching and his breath heavy as his body ascended in a strange, rhythmic pace.

He was standing upon the crags, heart pounding, lips trembling, and causing the hair on the back of his neck to wilt.

The water below was frothy and green, pointy rocks poking out of the trembling surface like stained teeth. Down below was a gaping mouth, the collision of the waterfall against the pool like the sound of some great beast gurgling and spitting. From this height, the pool was not a pool, but a snarling maw.

Armin felt lightheaded. He understood.

He moved his bloody feet, and he felt as though something was dragging him forward, forcing him this way and that, and he couldn't even pretend that it bothered him. He was so sick of caring.

The air was singing around him, a breeze like a knife, a mist like a screen of smoke, and he was blinded and intoxicated.

_I could die up here_, he thought tipping his head over the edge to peer at the drop and the rocks and the spittle of the waterfall deep down below.

"People come up here to die," he found himself uttering aloud. He tilted his head up. The cliff was yawning above him. The forest beyond it. He knew the odds. Had Eren?

He peered at his crimson fingers, his body aching and whining and begging him not to.

He leapt from the rock, and left his fear behind him.

In the end, not a great idea.

The water was really fucking cold, and it didn't wash away any of Armin's anxieties, and it was really fucking cold.

He dragged himself back to the surface, feeling as though someone had decided to take a long, narrow knife, and lovingly stab him once, twice, thrice, thirty times in the frontal lobe.

"Shit," he gasped, flailing a little as he blinked the tears out of his eyes.

Well, Eren would've survived that for sure.

Maybe he should've jumped from a higher place?

Ah, fuck it, he wasn't trying that again today.

Falls. Bait.

Armin hated himself a little for being such a goddamn fool.

He used the pass to get back to his bag, already drenched to the point where the waterfall did not faze him, though it did cause another blinding bout of knifing cold. He snatched his bag, standing in the river in his shivering state, and feeling as though he'd just made a grand fool of himself in front of the entire world.

What would Annie say?

He found a makeshift path carved out of the stone about a half-mile upstream, near a more populated area. He pulled on his shoes, his teeth chattering a bit as the air misted around him, and he felt the stillness of the world around him, the reality of being all alone in the woods settling upon him. He walked, old leaves and sticks crunching and cracking underfoot, and he breathed in deeply in order to relieve the stress and the paranoia.

He found himself turning his head about, watching the leaves on the trees sway in the breeze, moving in and around the forest until he finally stopped to let his legs and feet rest. Blood and water were soaking through his shoes, and his thighs were chafing against his jeans. He examined his red fingers, picking at the remnants of his fingernails and frowning.

This sucked.

He pulled his phone from his bag, wiping his fingers on the fabric so he didn't smudge blood on his screen. He scrolled through his contacts until he got to Jean.

The tone rung for a bit.

Jean didn't answer.

"Motherfucker," Armin muttered, kicking off the tree he'd been leaning on and marching forward. He wasn't lost, really. There were tons of signs throughout the forest, and it wasn't a big forest either. Between the river and the town there were paths that snaked throughout the woods, so he should be fine. Also, people liked to fish in the river, so there were various little milestones of sorts around these parts.

Armin called Jean again.

It rung and rung and rung.

"—'_Lo_?"

"Hey," Armin said, kicking a stick and wincing in pain. "Can you do me a favor?"

"_Depends_," said Jean, his voice thick with sleep. "_Do I gotta get up_?"

"Yes, Jean."

"_Fuck you_."

"Please," Armin begged. "You'll meet a really cute girl."

"_Fuck_," Jean swore. "_How cute_?"

Armin hummed softly to himself, feeling a little gross from the river water. His teeth were still chattering. "Super cute," he said. "A little intimidating, but she's really a big softy."

"_Doesn't sound like my type_."

"You have a type?" Armin let his voice grow mocking and clipped.

"_I'm fucking going, okay? Chill_." Jean was shuffling around, and Armin couldn't help but be relieved. He didn't know if he had Annie's number anymore. "_Uh… where am I going_?"

"A café on Maria Street," Armin said. "She's really tiny and blonde."

"_Am I looking for you, bud_?"

"Tinier, blonder," Armin sighed, "a police officer. Not me."

"_Oh_." Armin heard a door open and close. "_Oh_!"

"Take a left on Ross, and you can just keep going straight for a little while until you hit the police station, which is hard to miss. Then turn left again, and you'll be on Maria, and you basically don't need anymore directions."

"_Kay_," Jean muttered. "_Stay on the phone, though. Just in case. Wait, where are you_?"

"Uh…" Armin looked around. Trees. Trees. Trees. "In the woods. Somewhere near the river."

"_What the fuck_?"

"I know," he said weakly. "I know, I totally did not expect this to happen, but here I am, in the woods, a little lost and a little scared shitless, but hey."

"_Don't piss yourself_," Jean laughed.

"Yeah, okay." Armin rolled his eyes. "Anyway, when you meet her, don't… be you."

"_Okay_," Jean said flatly. "_Who should I be, then? The prime minister?_"

"Maybe," Armin said. "She wouldn't kick you in the balls if you were."

"_I'm turning around right now and heading back_."

"I'm joking," Armin blurted. _Mostly_. "But seriously, don't like, piss her off okay, she's really scary when she's angry. Don't point out that she's not smiling, and don't tease her. Don't make any gross comments. Just tell her that you're there in my place, and apologize for me."

"_You owe me for this_."

"Yes," Armin sighed, every step a jolt of pain through his toes, spiking up into his legs and bursting outward, reaching and reaching through his veins and muscles until it prickled the surface of his skin. "Don't film her either. She might break your camera, and I want it to be confidential that she helped us. Okay?"

"_Fine…_"

As Armin took a turn, he noted a path to his left, paved and enticing. He took a step toward it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a dark gray smudge in his line of vision, like a great big glob of ash clinging to his eyelashes. Armin turned his head ever so slightly to just glance at it, and he saw, with some vague interest, that it was nothing but a rickety old shack, a discolored shed that had been abandoned and gnawed at by termites for who knew how long.

"_I think I'm lost_," Jean sighed in his ear.

_Me too,_ Armin thought.

Armin squinted at the shed.

There was an old, faded sign over the mantel of the door.

_Live bait_.

Oh.

"Jean," Armin said. "In horror movies, when the one character goes off alone in the forest, and finds a creepy old shed that kinda seems like it might lead exactly where you want it to lead, what happens to that character?"

Jean was very quiet.

"_Armin_," he said. "_Are you okay_?"

"I feel funny," he admitted, his aching feet gravitating toward the shack. "I've felt funny all morning. Detached. I'm making decisions without any ground for them, and that's unlike me. I'm just letting things happen, and I don't know what I'm doing." He could hear the distress in his own voice, but he felt emptied of all concern. "I found a note from Eren."

"_WHAT_?"

"Yeah," he said distantly, standing outside the small shack, feeling the wind sway him to and fro. "Yeah, and it only said two words. Falls and bait."

"_What the fuck is that supposed to mean_?"

"I thought the first one meant the river," Armin said, staring vacantly at the door. "But when I went to Titan's Maw, I couldn't understand why Eren would point to that. So I'm in the woods now, and I just found this old shed, and it's got a sign." Armin craned his neck to look at it. "Live bait."

"_All of my horror movie expert instincts say_," Jean said very slowly, "_get the fuck out of there_."

"I have to look," Armin murmured.

"_Armin_!"

"When you're done with Annie, you should come here," he insisted. "Take pictures, or a video. It's really creepy, you'd love it."

"_Once again_," Jean hissed. "_Do not do anything by yourself. You crazy bastard_."

"You sound so worried." Armin pushed open the door. Dust coughed into his face, and he shivered. The air was suddenly thick and musty, still unbearably chilly. The door got snagged on a heavy, ratty gray carpet, so Armin kicked it open, squeaking when it collided with the opposite wall. "It wasn't even locked!"

"_There's probably like, a hobo sleeping in there_!" Jean sounded actually very worried. "_Okay. Okay, tell me what you find. Don't get like, mugged, or something_."

"Don't plan on it."

The interior of the shed was cluttered, fishing poles lying uselessly on the ground and leaning up in corners, cobwebs binding them in skinny columns. There were tackle boxes on the floor, old and stained and dusty, a large spade leaned up beside the old fishing poles, and in all honesty the shack was so tiny that Armin doubted there was anyone hiding in there. He checked behind his shoulder once more, just to be sure there was no one following him, as any anxious person would, given the bad vibes he was getting from this place.

"There's no one here," Armin informed Jean. "It's just a shed. A really old, dusty shed."

"_That's good, at least. Oh, hey! Maria Street_!"

"Great job," Armin said. He moved deeper into the shack, squinting through the dim light filtered in through the open door, and he saw there were hooks in a jar on the shelf. Beside them, a grimy container which Armin imagined contained a whole lot of dead worms. _Live bait_, he thought amusedly. He felt something crack beneath his wet sneaker, and he paused, looking down at the floor. "I stepped on something."

"_Are you okay_?"

"Yeah." Armin knelt down, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder. "You actually don't have to come here, now that I'm thinking about it. It's just as disappointing as Titan's Maw."

"_Bumme_r," Jean snorted. "_So I got up for nothing_."

"No," Armin said, plucking up the hook and tackle he'd treaded on unintentionally. "You got up to get Eren's file from Annie. Keep up, Jean."

"_You did _not _tell me that_!"

Armin crouched, peering at the hook in the pale streams of daylight that shivered and flickered, leaving the shed dim and bathed in shadows. This hook was no different. It looked just like any other hook and tackle. Armin nearly dropped it back down onto the moth eaten carpet.

Then he caught a gleam of green, and he halted.

He held the tackle up to the light.

"What the…?" he uttered softly, his mind reeling backwards, and then forwards, and then with a great burst of bemusement all thought halted.

"_What_?" Jean asked.

Mistaken, he was mistaken, he must've been mistaken, because it was far too bizarre to even fancy the thought of it. The mere idea of this hook, this misshapen little green tackle, gaudy and old and cumbersome between his fingers, the idea that this little thing was the same hook that had disappeared from his wall that morning was ludicrous at best. Unsettling at worst.

"I just found…" Armin's voice was shaky and thin. He didn't think it was too bad, this weird little find, because it couldn't be the same hook, it was just too strange. But his memory was impeccable.

His memory was, wasn't it?

"Jean," Armin said faintly, "I have photographic memory."

"_Yeah_…?" He didn't sound really interested at all, and Armin's heart rate was spiking to dangerous levels.

"I do," he murmured, rolling the tackle between his fingers. "I do, I _do_, don't I?"

"_Armin_…?"

"Ignore me," Armin laughed shakily, "oh, just ignore me, I'm totally just… losing it, I think, I mean… how… is it possible…?" Armin fell onto his knees, and he began to laugh harder, his tears a mask to cover just how utterly baffled he was by this entire change of pace. He was logic, and he was fact, but there was no explanation for this find.

He shifted, and the wood beneath the carpet creaked.

His heart rate, rapid and uneven as it was, seemed to simply stop all at once.

"Hold on," he gasped, tossing his phone aside. It slid across the carpet, and Armin listened to Jean's voice as he replied inaudible words.

Armin felt around beneath the shelf, holding his nerves and letting them grow steels as his fingers caught on spider webs and rat droppings, things that really should not be so close to his stubby, bloody fingernails. He pulled the edge of the carpet up, ignoring the onslaught of dust and dirt that blew across his vision, and he flipped the old, beaten cloth until half the pallid floor was visible.

"No way," Armin breathed, collapsing back on his hands, dizzy and sick.

There was a rectangle sliced into the floor. A trap door.

Armin sat for about a minute letting his disbelief sink in. He was shivery, his teeth chattering and his clothes plastered to his skin, his discomfort only growing with every spare second that he was left to the chilly spring air and the gross humidity. He was half-frozen, wet and bloodied, and yet here he was, sitting on the floor of some obscure little shack, staring and wondering and waiting, because after all, he should never have been here.

Falls? Bait?

Armin kicked the remainder of the carpet out of the way, and he crawled carefully, mindful of the groaning old wood. The little door was locked, he noted, spotting the metal hatch. He took the lock in his hand, peering at its shape, and then ran his thumb over the keyhole. He snatched his phone, and put it on speaker.

"Hey," he said, digging through his bag, "so you need to get over here. Like, as soon as possible."

"_What the fuck just happened_?" Jean asked flatly. "_Dude, I am in the café. There is no girl_."

"She's probably still working, okay?" He pulled out his jackknife set, his numb, blood smeared fingers trembling at the lid. He paused, and he grabbed his camera, standing up shakily and adjusting the lens, watching the focus go in and out. "Just get here as soon as you can."

"_Did you find something in there_?"

"Um, well," Armin took several pictures of the trap door, and then he went outside to take pictures of the shed itself. He moved around the shed to be sure there was no one lurking, like he was so paranoid there was, and he then went back inside to answer Jean. "Okay, yes. I found something. I don't know what to do, though."

"_What do you mean_?" Jean asked eagerly. "_Is it a dead body_?"

"You're fucking morbid."

"_That was a legitimate question_!"

"No," Armin sighed. At least, he thought, eying the trap door, I don't think so. "It's a trap door."

Jean was very quiet. Armin pushed open his jackknife set, and set out to work. He was usually very good at picking locks— he had a bad habit of it, something he'd learned from Eren who'd learned from Annie. Who'd probably learned from Historia and Ymir.

"_Are you serious_?" Jean asked distantly.

"I'm picking the lock right now," Armin responded, wincing as the tools slipped against his damp fingers. He could hear the lock jostling, and feel the bolts shift. "It's probably nothing."

"_Doesn't sound like nothing_."

"It's so strange," Armin said, his mind on the lock and the missing hook, flipping unsteadily between the two and fumbling for answers. "I found a hook in here that looks exactly like the one that went missing from my wall this morning."

"_That's_…" Jean sounded very uncomfortable. Armin stared at his shaky fingers as the lock clicked. "_That's creepy as hell. Where are you, again_?"

"A shed," Armin said, putting the lock aside and reorganizing his jackknife set. "It's near a path— a paved path, really close to the river, where lots of people fish. Get directions from Annie, if you're confused."

"_You should get out of there_," Jean said very slowly. "_I don't like that you're out there alone. You should've waited for me, or brought Mikasa_."

"You were hung over," Armin reminded, stuffing the set back into his bag alongside the hook, "and Mikasa was working."

"_You don't go out into the woods all alone, stupid_!"

He wanted to explain that he'd been trying to recreate, in part, what had happened to Eren that night by attempting to retrace his steps. He'd been in the alleyway at some point, and then headed to Titan's Maw, if the note was correct, and then…? To the shed? For what?

"Just get the file," Armin said, flicking the latch. His breath was caught in his throat as he flung the door open.

"_Are you kidding me_?" Jean snapped. "_You're not going to go down there, are you_?"

"You're on the phone with me," Armin reasoned. He turned the flashlight on his phone on, lowering his arm into the hole and gliding it over the immediate space below. He saw a ladder, of course, and a concrete floor. Little else. "It looks empty."

"_If you're not in there, you don't know for sure_!"

Armin considered his words carefully.

"You're right," he said. He swallowed his crippling anxiety, and he threw his legs over onto the ladder. Jean was laughing, likely in an agreement of sorts. _Yes_, he was almost certainly thinking, _of course I'm right!_ Typical Jean.

The ladder creaked.

Armin's legs shook like leaves upon a spindly branch.

He was waiting for something to grab his ankle.

For claws or nails or bony fingers.

For something.

He lowered his head into the hole, and the cold air hit him like a punch in the jaw. He was tearing up, his vision bleary and his teeth chattering. He was so cold, and his entire body was either cramped and achy, or frighteningly numb.

He went down with his body facing the way his back might've faced if he climbed down the ladder normally. His phone was clenched in his trembling hand. Light was moving in a heavy shaft through the darkness, moving across clumped dirt walls, must and decay rolling inside his mouth, clogging up inside his throat. He was dizzy from the damp air, from the cold and the dark and the ringing silence.

"It's…" Armin let his sneakers brush the ground, and the earth was soft beneath his feet. There were wooden beams along the walls, he noted, shining his light across them, likely to support the weight of the soil and the shed above. "It looks a little like an unfinished shelter of some kind."

"_You went down there_?" Jean's voice was flat and disbelieving. "_After I explicitly stated not to do that. Why don't you even listen to me_?"

"The floor and walls are mostly dirt," Armin observed, tilting his light up at the ceiling. It was surprisingly tall, and when he reached up, his fingers didn't touch it. "It's pretty big, actually. I think it tunnels down further."

"_You know, I always thought I was the dumb one_," Jean hissed. "_But you are clearly a total fucking idiot. Do I have to like, mom you, or something? Get out of there right now, young man_."

"Oh, please," Armin laughed uneasily, the cold and the dark and the silence all beating into his bones as he turned about in place, his light flickering in the dark.

His heart dropped into his stomach after the shivering light trailed across the contours of a face in the darkness, hollow eyes flashing in the torchlight, a blur of something humanoid standing a yard, two yards, three yards away. Armin had frozen, unable to breathe or move, his thoughts caught in a trap, and the icy air bit into his creaky bones.

His back was to the ladder. His mind was to the soft soil.

The silence cracked like a bullet through his skull, and he felt his brain receive the shrapnel of bone, the entire blast leaving him sickened and immobile. His phone fell from his fist, and collided with something hard. Concrete? Oh, right, he'd seen that before descending. Was this little hole in the ground half-finished?

Jean's silly words were drowned out by the whooshing of the air around him inside his ears. He could not breathe.

"Armin?" Eren's voice bled through him, smearing his skin and trickling into his veins.

As Armin tipped, overtaken by a spell of dizziness, the world grew darker, and from up above him the trap door slammed shut.


	4. Chapter 4

**no time for sickness**

When Armin had met Mikasa, she'd been timid and small, her eyes too big and her knees a little wobbly. She hadn't really interacted with him or Eren, and instead had stood by her parents with a patient gaze and a docile demeanor. Armin couldn't remember, but he was positive that she had just been visiting for a funeral, or something equally as unfortunate. She had glanced at them when her parents had spoken to Eren's father, but otherwise she'd merely looked bored with them.

Her parents had died far away from Shiganshina, and she'd had the misfortune of being dragged to the small town to live with her only remaining living relative. She'd gone to Dr. Jaeger for inevitable PTSD, and ended up befriending Eren that way. Eren had somewhat taken her under his wing, more or less declaring her part of his family regardless of where she was obligated to live. Eren refused to acknowledge where she'd lived as her home, and ignored mentions of her actual blood relatives. He wouldn't take any of it.

Armin had never tried to dissuade this way of thinking, but at first he'd thought if very strange. Until one day, a muggy August afternoon, when they'd gone wading at the banks of the river, Armin had noticed something about Mikasa.

With her skirt hiked up, and her shirt tied off, and her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, Armin could see more of the girl's skin than he'd ever seen of any girl's skin in his entire life. And to his childish gaze, every blemish was intensified. Every angry black bruise was a heavy welt that scorched itself into his brain. He'd stopped dead in his tracks, his feet caked with mud and his eyes wide and horrified, and he watched his friend dance from one slippery rock to another, dodging Eren's pail of murky river water.

Armin had not needed an adult to tell him what the bruises meant.

So, with a heavy heart, he'd told them.

He'd gone to Eren's house a week later, purposefully avoiding his best friend by appearing while he was at a piano lesson. He'd knocked on the door, nervous and fearful of what his words might ignite, but he could not bear to keep this terrible truth a secret any longer. When Carla Jaeger opened the door, she looked down at Armin with large eyes, and a sweet smile.

"Oh," she gasped, resting her hands on her knees and leaning toward him, "Armin! Eren's actually not here—"

"I know," he'd interrupted, scratching his knuckles anxiously. "May I come in?"

Carla had looked at him with such blatant alarm that it was clear she sensed something wrong. She'd stepped aside, allowing him into the house, and he'd stood awkwardly in the hall until she led him toward the kitchen.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked him, looking eager to busy herself as she opened a cabinet and grabbed a glass without bothering to let him answer. "Lemonade? Oh, I have cookies—"

"That's not necessary," Armin blurted. He'd rubbed his sweaty palms on his shorts, and taken a deep breath as Eren's mother had stared at him with large, expectant eyes. "I noticed something recently, and… I think Eren's known for a long time. Did he ever say anything about Mikasa's bruises?"

Just like that, Armin saw Carla Jaeger's entire being seem to crumple all at once, her eyes dimming momentarily.

"Bruises?"

"On her arms," Armin explained, pointing to fingers to his bicep, "and on her stomach…" He gesticulated, just above his hip. "On her back… and thighs… and calves…"

"Armin," Carla said, her voice clipped and her eyes suddenly burning. "How long has this been going on?"

"I-I—" he gasped, taking a step back. He'd nearly tripped over his own feet, and his shame was creeping upon him. He'd scratched his knuckles so hard that they became raw, and he felt tears burning his eyes. Tears for Mikasa, tears for himself. "I don't really know, I only just noticed. Some bruises were yellowish, though, and some blue, and some black, so I don't know. I don't know why she never said anything…"

Carla was usually levelheaded, but Armin saw in her face the very fire that flickered inside Eren's bouts of rage that shook the earth whenever something did not conform to his fierce world views. This woman was about to wage war, and it'd be all Armin's fault for saying anything. Perhaps there had been a reason why Eren had never spoken up. Or, perhaps, Mikasa had talked him out of it. Either way, Armin felt a little betrayed.

As Carla paced about the kitchen, Armin felt as though he needed to flee. The Jaegers were such immensely kind people, but holy shit, were they frightening when they were angry.

She whirled to face him. "You said," she stated fiercely, "that Eren knew about this?"

Armin had felt his heart drop into his stomach as he realized his folly.

There had to be a reason.

"Oh," he gasped, waving his hands hurriedly. "I don't know that for sure! I just… thought that maybe he might. Because he's with Mikasa more than I am." He glanced away, feeling dirty for lying. _Liar, liar_, a voice in his head sang, and he felt sick and grotesque, so he scratched at the white skin of his knuckles and smiled weakly at Eren's disbelieving mother.

"Are you lying, Armin?" Carla Jaeger asked, a stern warning seeping into her tone. He felt it lash upon his cheek, and tears poured from his eyes.

"Yes," he mumbled, his eyes dropping to his feet. He couldn't even see his sneakers, his vision was in such a haze from the tears. "I'm sorry…"

"Oh," Carla sighed, her tone suddenly much more sympathetic. "Oh, no, Armin, don't cry."

He couldn't help it. He'd only just imagined the thought of Eren being angry with him, and that had utterly broken him. How could Armin possibly explain himself?

"Please," Armin begged, rubbing at his cheeks furiously. His voice croaked from his throat, shaking in midair. "Please make sure Mikasa's okay, I— I don't think I'd be able to live with myself if she wasn't…"

Carla knelt before Armin, and she nodded firmly, wiping his tears with the pad of her thumb. She smiled warmly. "I will," she swore.

"Don't tell anyone it was me who snitched, either," he gasped, shaking his head furiously. "Pretend like you saw it! No, better yet, make sure they're actually there first!"

"I can take it from here Armin," Carla said gently, "don't you worry."

He'd nodded. He'd nodded.

He'd scratched his knuckled until they bled, but he'd nodded all the same.

* * *

><p>Armin woke up to a shrill, unfamiliar alarm, which sung in a steady rhythm with ever breath he took. His body felt stiff and unyielding, and that made him a little confused, because that must mean that he'd been asleep for a while. Armin didn't really sleep. He noted that he could not move either, which was a frightening prospect, if not for the fact that Armin felt emptied of all emotions. When he tried to pry his eyes open, a shock of pure pain jolted through his skull, bouncing and colliding with the sides of his brain, and he groaned softly, feeling as though his head had just collapsed onto itself.<p>

"Armin?"

The voice was sweet and soft and muffled beyond recognition. Something was brushing his hand, but it could be anything, from a blanket to a stray cat, he did not know.

"Armin, wake up…"

The voice was louder, and it was easier to pick up who the voice belonged to. It was a struggle to crack an eye open, and when he did so he was blinded. He groaned louder, and he lifted his arm to cover his eyes, and felt his hand snag on something. He forced his eyelids back, squinting through the flare of light that swooped across his vision, and he saw with some vague alarm that there was a tube stuck in his arm.

"Wha…" His mouth was dry and his throat was sore. "What…?"

"Armin…"

He glanced up, and he blinked rapidly as Mikasa's face hovered over his. She was holding his hand tightly, her dark eyes foggy with concern, and he was distraught as he tried to piece together exactly what had happened, his mind in shambles as it picked up the pieces and tried to assemble them into a concrete reason for why he was hospitalized.

"Mikasa…" he said, his voice a meager little croak, and tears filled his eyes. He felt nothing, and yet everything hurt. He saw the bandages on his fingers, winding around and around and around, and he felt compelled to rip them all off. "What happened…? What am I… doing…?"

"Shh." She smoothed his hair back, kneeling beside his bed. He noted Jean in the corner, sleeping in a chair. "You're here because hit your head." She rubbed his head, and he actually winced, a spike of pain driving through the front of his head and spearing through the back. "Sorry…"

"How'd I hit…?" Armin's voice trailed away, drowned out by the sound of rushing water and creaky decay and Eren's disbelieving voice and the crash of a trap door slamming shut from up above. "Oh."

"You don't have to explain anything to me," Mikasa whispered, staring into his eyes. "I trust you."

He was so heartbroken by her words, because the entire reason for all of this was because of the very fact that he did not trust her as much as he wanted to.

"Oh," he said faintly. What else could he say?

He thought about Eren. His voice was swimming wildly inside Armin's head, shivering and quaking and floating like music, a stab of percussion notes ringing in his brain.

Had he imagined that? Had Eren really been there?

"What happened?" he whispered, sickened by the thought of being so close to having Eren back. "Did… did Jean find me…?"

"Yes." Mikasa shot a glance at the man who slumbered in the corner, his breathing heavy enough that it was clear he'd been snoozing for a while. "Jean and Annie did. They said you accidentally fell through the floor, by the way."

Accidentally? Armin thought of the careful lock picking he'd done in order to get into that little underground cavern, and he wondered if it would've been so easy as falling. _Falls. Bait_. He chewed the inside of his cheek, and everything felt fuzzy.

"It didn't happen like that," he breathed.

"I didn't think so," she replied. She sat down on his hospital bed, her eyes lowering to her hands. "Though what happened doesn't explain your fingers and toes."

"Oh." Armin raised his shaky fingers to his eyes, and he wiggled them. "Right. I did some amateur rock climbing."

She picked up his left hand, holding his bandaged fingers in hers as she examined them closely. "You shouldn't have done that," she said.

"No," Armin agreed, "I really shouldn't have."

Mikasa sighed. She stared into his eyes, her brow furrowing a little, and she shook her head. "It's been one day, Armin," she said. "I know you want to find Eren— I get it, I know exactly how you feel, but please take it easy. It's not safe to just run around like the world is yours, like what we did when we were children." She closed her eyes, grasping his hand firmly, and he stared at her in awe.

"Is it more dangerous now, somehow?" he asked her weakly.

"No…" She did not look at him. "It's just… you should know better."

Oh.

Well, now he felt like a child.

He stared vacantly into his lap, and his thoughts ran back to Eren, and those thoughts were Eren's voice saying his name in a slow succession. _Armin? Armin? Armin?_

Had that been all a feverish dream?

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her. "I didn't think anything bad would happen…"

She nodded, though he felt as though she had something more to say. He watched as she brought the bandaged tips of his fingers to her lips and kissed them.

"Feel better," she whispered, rising to her feet. She looked exhausted. "I have to get back to work."

"Okay…"

She tilted her head at him. And then, faintly, she smiled at him.

"Don't go into the woods," she told him plainly. Her voice was strange and gentle, the sound of a mother comforting a child, the sound of wind whistling through leaves, the sound of Eren calling out in the dark, there or not there, alive or not alive. "Don't put yourself through this kind of pain again."

"I can't promise that," he told her just the same, his voice harsher and more resolute. And her smile widened, then fell. And she nodded. She left him with that.

A nurse came in and explained to him his condition, detailing stuff about his head and his fingers, and most importantly his body temperature, which had rapidly decreased upon falling in the cellar. After being left there for about half an hour, he'd been found and immediately taken to the hospital, which of course was where he was now.

"Can I have a mirror?" he asked Jean when the nurse left. He was sitting, watching Armin with a weak gaze.

"You sure?" he asked tentatively.

Armin sat, resisting the urge to touch his face. What on earth could he possible look like?

"I'm sure," he said firmly.

Jean stood, walking slowly to Armin's cot and offering out his phone. Armin peered at himself through the camera, and he froze. His eyes were gauzy and hollow, his lips wane and purplish, chapped dry like desert ridges, and bloodied up around the corners. There were angry lines running jagged down his right cheek, likely from the cement he'd fallen upon, but also mauve bruises crawling along his jaw and temple beneath the heavy bandages wrapped around his head.

It could've been worse, but he felt as though someone had bashed his face in several times with a hammer. He looked absolutely terrible.

"Gross," he said, sinking into his bed.

"Kinda," Jean admitted.

"You're not supposed to agree," Armin mumbled.

"Sorry, man, you look like shit."

Armin turned the camera away, feeling very empty of feeling, and trying to make sense of the strangeness that had been heaped onto him in the past day or so. The sound of Eren's voice was still bleeding in his head, and it made him feel sick even through the numbness and the foggy mist of morphine dragging through his veins.

"I feel like shit," he whispered.

Jean stared at him. Armin heard his breath, heard him stop breathing, and he watched as his friend look wildly about the room.

"Well," he said, straightening up, "I mean, you could have probably died, so think about it, you actually could've had it way worse."

"You really don't know how to make people feel better," Armin sighed, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I know, I'm awful." Jean stood at the foot of Armin's bed, studying him with a furrowed brow. "God, I… Like, what the fuck, man? What were you thinking?"

_I was thinking of Eren_, Armin thought, sinking further into his cot, further into his hazy mind, further into the drum of Eren's voice in the darkness that crept along the rising catacombs of his mind.

Armin bowed his head, ashamed and disoriented.

"I suppose," he admitted, "I wasn't thinking at all."

"Yeah, that's not like you." Jean's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, his jaw tightening. "Something happened down there, didn't it?"

Armin didn't want to say that he'd heard Eren's voice, seen his face, because he didn't know if that had been real or some twist of his mind, a trick of the light and acoustics of the damp, earthy cellar. But at the same time, there was something inside him that was breaking apart and begging, begging so desperately, for some validation of the frantic thoughts and bare feelings and messy, worthless actions.

"You were on the phone," Armin whispered, "weren't you?"

"Uh, yeah…" Jean leaned back, looking uncertain. "It was fucking scary."

"Yeah!" Armin leaned forward eagerly. "Yeah, it was! Did you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"The…" Armin had to choose carefully. The truth or the alteration. What would Jean want to hear? "I thought I heard I voice. I dropped my phone."

Jean squinted at him. Armin wondered if he'd misjudged Jean's thirst for adventure, for answers, for glory.

"I honestly did not hear a voice," he said slowly, his brow furrowing further. "But, like, I heard the door slam. The trap door. And I heard you scream."

"I didn't scream," Armin blurted.

Jean looked puzzled. "No," he said firmly, "no, I definitely heard you screaming."

"I passed out before I made a sound," Armin insisted.

"You screamed," Jean argued. "Dude. Don't even joke. You screamed, and then you started shouting, and then the line went dead."

Armin sat, trying to process that, but he simply could not fathom it. No, he had definitely passed out before even hitting the ground. How could he have screamed?

"Are you sure it was me?" Armin whispered.

Jean was staring with fierce eyes, his jaw unhinging.

"Dude…" he said, shaking his head slowly. "This isn't funny."

"I'm not joking."

"Who else…?" Jean's eyes widened, and he took a step back. "Wait, wait! How did the trap door slam?"

Armin had no real answer to that.

"The wind?" he offered. He knew that to be untrue, but it would be so easy to believe it. Jean shot him a look.

"There's something you're not telling me…" Jean leaned over Armin's footboard, and he scowled. "Cough up. What really happened?"

"I honestly don't know." Armin stared into Jean's eyes, letting his face crumple and his voice quiver, and he was satisfied when Jean frowned, looking disappointed. "I just… I don't know. I can't… explain it, okay?"

"Okay…" Jean looked apprehensive, but he let it slide. For now. Armin sensed he'd be hearing more about this later. "I have the file, by the way."

Armin perked up. At least one good thing came out of the terrible day.

He was eventually permitted to go home, which allowed him to focus on some important things. Like, say, the bullshit he'd went through that morning. The hook, he found, was still in his bag, as was his camera. The note from Eren had unfortunately disintegrated in the pocket of his jeans when he'd jumped into Titan's Maw. He was pissed at himself for that. He hadn't even taken a picture of it.

Mikasa fretted over him, as Mikasa tended to when he was hurt, by silently hovering around him, making sure there was hardly a single discomfort for him. He hated it, but he was glad that she cared, even if it felt a little stifling.

"Okay," Jean said that night while the three of them were sitting in the living room. Armin was thinking about Eren's voice again, feeling as though there were a gaping hole within the structure of the room. "Let's look at this file."

Mikasa raised an eyebrow. "File?" she asked.

Jean stared at her. He shot a glance at Armin, who took it in a stride. "I asked Annie to get me Eren's case file," he explained to her. He glanced at her worriedly. "You aren't mad, are you?"

She was quiet. She pulled her feet up onto the couch, and she shook her head. Armin wasn't sure if he believed her.

"I didn't think you'd get Annie involved," Mikasa said cautiously.

"She's already involved," Armin said. He opened up the manila folder, staring vacantly at the immediate photograph of Eren Jaeger at age fourteen, an old school photo that had been recycled for this purpose. "She obviously knows you lied about not being there that night."

Once again Mikasa was silent. He'd struck a nerve, he thought perhaps, but he didn't know where that would lead.

"She doesn't strike me as the police officer type," Jean admitted. "So what happened there?"

"I don't know," Mikasa said.

Armin wondered if that was the truth.

When had he started doubting every little thing that passed through Mikasa's lips, anyway?

"She definitely acted pretty criminally back in the day." Armin leaned forward, examining the thin file, and noting it was merely the basics. Eren's name, date of birth, age— fifteen at the time of his disappearance—, the date he'd disappeared, gender, race, a list of illnesses he'd had, the treatment he'd received. Armin would have to pick it apart by himself at a later date. "She used to shop lift, you know."

"And now she's a cop," Jean muttered. "Nice."

"We actually all were really bad kids," Armin admitted sheepishly. Mikasa nodded in agreement while Jean stared.

"No wait," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Okay, seriously?"

"Yes?" Mikasa frowned at him. "I raced illegally. I still race illegally." She jerked a thumb at Armin. "He was an information broker."

"That's overstating it," he muttered, flushing.

"He was an information broker." Mikasa shrugged. "He stopped that awhile ago, though."

"Eren flew on the right side of the law for the most part, though," Armin recalled. "Though he got into a lot of fights."

"He got in trouble for graffiti too," Mikasa sighed, closing her eyes. She was smiling, Armin noted, the corners of his own lips twitching. "Though it was mostly when he was trying to paint over graffiti he thought offensive. He had a bad habit of getting in trouble for things that had nothing to do with him."

"He did, didn't he?" Armin leaned over, turning the page of the file. "There's not even an official statement regarding his disappearance. Who was handling this case?"

"Beats me," Jean scoffed. "I don't live here."

"Probably Pixis," Mikasa said. Armin watched her sink into her chair. "He retired, though."

"Yeah. Annie said." He wondered about that. He'd met Pixis, and he'd been determined to find out what had happened to Eren. But suddenly he'd just retired? Without even bothering to close the case? That didn't seem right. "Something's not right here."

"Sounds like you've got some corrupt cops," Jean said.

"Well, if Annie joined…" Mikasa murmured.

"She's not that bad…" Armin tried to argue. Mikasa glanced at him, and he stared back at her desperately. She merely shook her head, looking defeated.

"I'm going to go to bed," she declared. She stood up, moving toward him, and for a moment he was puzzled, but then she leaned down and brushed her lips to his hair.

Sometimes Armin felt like he was being closed off from the world, locked up in a little airless box and forced to inhale his own hot breath. But somehow, Mikasa, and in the past, Eren, had always found a way to drag him out, to feed him fresh air.

He was lost without them.

What had he done for the past four years without Mikasa by his side? The past seven years without Eren?

Armin wanted to cry, but he couldn't find the tears.

He brought the file to bed with him, pouring over it as he plucked the fish hooks from the wall. He tossed them onto the desk, and while he scanned the papers into his computer he compared the green tackled hook to the rest of them. They seemed to be just about the same in construct, but he wasn't a hundred percent sure.

His entire body was achy by the time he'd read through the file for the third time, and he realized it was because his medication had probably worn off, so he could feel every muscle in him locking up, and he stared at the bandages on his fingers, and felt for the bandage on his head, and he wondered.

Had he dreamed it?

Had he truly just conjured up Eren's face, Eren's voice, Eren's very presence in the dark?

Could that be true?

Armin fell asleep at his desk, thinking hard and coming up with no conclusions. Eren was missing. Eren was still gone.

Eren was gone.

Eren was gone…

Armin woke up in his bed.

Confused, utterly berated with a great hammering pain all throughout his body, and a little bewildered, he awoke with the covers of his bed half thrown over his body, and he blinked rapidly, groaning into his pillow. His headache was viciously chiseling at the right side of his brain.

Dumb. Dumb dumb dumb dumb.

He came to the conclusion that in a sleep deprived state, he'd stumbled back to his bed. So, here he was.

His entire being hurt.

It took him a good hour to muster up the strength to actually get out of bed, which was saying a lot. When he finally rolled out of bed, he ended up taking his blanket with him, because the air was tinged with frost and fright, and he was delirious and in severe pain, so he wandered from his room bundled in a great big blanket, waddling to the kitchen and peeking through the doorway. He sniffled. He realized, with a heavy heart, that he had a cold from jumping into the river like the big fat idiot that he was.

Jean immediately turned his camera upon him.

"Hey, doof," Jean chuckled. Armin pulled his blanket over his head, and promptly flipped him off.

"You look tired," Mikasa observed.

"Mm…" He plopped down at the kitchen table, dragging his blanket further over his head, and he decided he'd be okay just staying like this forever. He'd bring his blanket everywhere, and just drown them out with the fluffy warmness of it whenever they annoyed him. Seemed fair. Yes. Yes, he liked this plan.

_Armin?_

He lowered his head, his bandaged forehead hitting the surface of the table.

_Armin?_

He felt sick. Sick. Sick. Sickened and sad and slipping from reality with a frigid breath crawling down his neck.

_Armin?_

Why couldn't he get that damn voice out of his head?

"Armin?"

He jumped as Mikasa picked his head up with both hands, pushing back his blanket and rubbing her knuckles against his skin. He blinked up at her, feeling startled and stunted, feeling caught in a trap and unable to untangle himself.

"You've got a fever," she said. Her fingers drew upward, and she sighed, shaking her head. "You also haven't changed your bandage."

"I just got up," he mumbled.

"Come on, I'll do it."

Because of Armin's splitting headache and hazy state of being, nothing got done that day. Or the day after. Armin lived in a bleary haze, wandering around the apartment, speaking to Jean, speaking to Mikasa, and never really noticing the things around him. He never questioned the fact that he didn't recall going to sleep, but miraculously ended up in his bed every morning anyway. He didn't think twice about the cold, the shift in the ambience, or the soft whispers that seemed to breathe from his very walls.

He realized, as his head healed, and he still wandered around the house in a blanket and his pajamas, that something was terribly wrong.

"Armin," Jean said one afternoon. "I think you're depressed."

Armin glanced up from the book he'd… appropriated… from Mikasa about Sina, who had been some lady who'd fancied herself a bit of a sorceress of sorts. She mostly just told stories about magic being good and bad, and sometimes the bad was necessary to bring out the good. He was too unfocused to even understand half the stories, which was a testament to how scrambled his brain was from the fall.

"That's very insightful," Armin replied, returning his gaze to a parable about "The Practical Girl". "Although, if you don't have a PhD in psychology, I'm disinclined to believe you."

"I took psychology!" Jean objected.

"As an elective," Armin reminded, "first year. You're not even remotely qualified. Also, I'm not depressed, Jean. Just concussed."

"Okay, whatever." Jean pointed at him. "You're fucking wrecked. Like, bad."

"Bad."

"Yeah!"

Armin closed his book, and he looked up at Jean with tired eyes. "I don't think I'm depressed," he said distantly. "But if I am, it's not your job to tell me so. You're here to help me find Eren."

"I'm here because I'm your friend," Jean argued.

"And as my friend," Armin said, rising to his feet and brushing past him, "you'll help me find out what happened to Eren, and why no one in this town has a clue where he went or why."

Jean opened his mouth to object, but before he could there was a very loud crashing sound from down below, and Armin felt his hair stand on end. They glanced at each other, and simultaneously they jumped to their feet. Armin discarded his book, rushing across the living room and to the front door, his bare feet skidding across the floor as he latched onto the doorknob, flinging the door open. Jean went first, hurrying down the steps two at a time while Armin's injured toes forced him to go slower.

When Armin got to the bottom of the steps, the first thing he noticed was the motorcycle parked outside the garage. He stood, wondering if his heart had suddenly punched out of his chest, or if the hollows of his chest rung with an old ache where his heart should've been.

_No_, he thought wildly, standing with white knuckles against the railing, his breath caught inside his throat as he let these new developments sink in. _No, no, no_.

Armin was little— a skinny boy with little height to him, a slender frame and a girlish face— and he knew he'd never be intimidating in a traditional sense. But in that moment he wished very dearly to be the size of Reiner— to be someone bulky and fearsome, someone who _looked_ like they could kill you with a glance.

It wouldn't help to wish for things like that, but he hadn't a clue how to mend this situation.

Another crash sounded from within the garage, and with resignation Armin started toward it. His feet dragged heavily across the wet pavement. The air was warm, and the day was muggy. The sky was gray and the humidity stewed around him.

He stopped behind Jean, watching with wide eyes as Mikasa slid across the concrete floor of the garage, her body curled up on impact to minimize the damage done to her. She looked disheveled, her hair out of its messy ponytail and slick against her cheeks, like wild feathers molting against her skin. She looked up at them, her dark eyes furious— one was swelling up already, he saw, for the inside was lined with red and the outside was turning faintly mauve.

"What the fuck?" Jean snarled, dropping to his knee beside Mikasa. Armin said nothing, and he merely shrunk under the steely gaze of the man who had appeared inside the garage. He was running his hands over the open hood of an old convertible, his lips thin and his demeanor chilly. There was a painfully large dent in the door of the car, and a plethora of tools littering the concrete.

"You've gotten slow," the man drawled.

Mikasa raised her head. She shrugged off Jean's hand, spitting a gooey glob of phlegm and blood onto the floor. He could see the unparalleled rage inside her stormy eyes, the tremulous fury that seemed to shake her to the very core.

"Mikasa," Armin said.

She did not hear him.

"Get out!" she spat, lurching to her feet and diving at him. Armin buckled when she was caught by the arm and swung into the wall, in spite of the fact that she had dodged the first attack that had headed her way. Armin listened to it, the soft snap of her body as it collapsed in a pile of tires. She blinked one eye rapidly, her breathing heavy and her limbs awkward and twisted.

Once, when Armin had been younger, he'd had the misfortune of catching Kenny Ackerman in a bad mood.

"_You've never been beaten a day in your life_," the man had sneered.

Back then, just as he was now, his legs had locked and his body had frozen up and his breath had caught in his throat, and he hadn't a clue what to say or do. He felt so weak.

Armin could feel something trickling down his spine. It was such a faint feeling, but it felt too heavy to be his imagination, and he thought for a moment it was blood, thick and hot, but the sensation was icy and it sent shocks of shivers shuddering through him.

Everything in him was electrified.

Everything in him was bursting apart.

A voice was trickling inside his brain.

_Kill him. Rip him to shreds. Destroy that bastard_.

Armin felt something pressing to his back, and a rhythm was playing in his heart, skin splitting apart and water rushing through his ears and screams playing like a skipping record.

"You haven't been answering my calls," Kenny said, standing over Mikasa's twisted body, looking impassive and bored. "Thought I'd check up on you. Make sure you didn't kill yourself."

"Thank you," she snapped, blood wetting her lips and caking her words, "for your _concern_."

"Well if I'd known you were just fucking around," Kenny said, waving offhandedly at both Armin and Jean, "maybe I wouldn't have bothered."

"Get out!" Mikasa cried once more, jumping to her feet, not even wobbling as she backhanded him. He actually stumbled, and Armin felt the tension, felt the cold air freeze upon his skin, and felt something dig into his spine. Like bits of broken glass, or cold, jagged nails.

Mikasa kicked Kenny backwards into the convertible, and before she could attack again, he had her by the arm.

"No!" Armin gasped, stumbling forward as Mikasa was twisted around, her elbow in Kenny's grasp. Both pairs of gray eyes moved to Armin's face. Kenny's were void of any sort of emotion, while Mikasa's were frantic and pained and desperately fearful. Armin knew it was not because she was being beaten to shit, but because he'd taken all of Kenny Ackerman's attention and placed it on himself.

_Cut him. Beat him. Make him feel it all_.

Armin's fingers twitched. He could not win against Kenny Ackerman— he could not even entertain the thought. He was scared, and he was close to tears, but he stood and stared the man down, feeling his muscles lock up once more as his lips trembled and his skin crawled.

"Armin," Mikasa hissed. "Stay out of this."

_No way!_

Armin buckled once more as his legs moved hopelessly forward.

"No way!" He was shaking very badly. But he felt a sudden, inexplicable boldness creep upon him, and suddenly swallow him whole. He lifted his chin to Kenny, and he snarled, "You _bastard_— you think you have any right to even speak to Mikasa? You're lucky Dr. Jaeger never reported you! Back the fuck off!"

Mikasa looked alarmed, and Armin didn't even want to look at Jean to see what he looked like. He was thriving on adrenaline, his breath short and his body shaking, but he knew, he knew, he knew he was right, and he'd scream these words over and over and over until they split the ground and filled the river and sank into the earth, rocking it until it quaked.

Kenny Ackerman laughed.

He threw his head back, and he fucking laughed.

Armin flushed, but he stood his ground. He could not back down, and he wasn't certain if it was his own determination or if it was something hostile crawling inside him, a need to prove himself, a terrible, desperate, clinging need.

"Looks like someone grew a spine," Kenny said coldly, shooting Armin a quick look. He glanced him once over, and Armin felt his muscles freeze up once more, and his skin prickled with discomfort. "Or maybe you just borrowed one."

_Make him pay,_ a guttural little voice slithered through Armin's brain, bleeding through the cracks and crags in his throbbing skull.

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Armin said, his words merely faint punctuated breaths, "I'm still terrified of you. But I'm not a gutless little kid who you can smack aside. I'll make you regret hurting Mikasa. I'll make you pay for it."

_Make him fucking pay._

While Kenny Ackerman was preoccupied with what could only be thoughts of ripping up the flesh that covered Armin's spine, Mikasa slammed her boot into his gut and then snapped her leg up, her heel colliding with his jaw. She tore her arm from his grasp as he was thrown backwards, and she scooped a random tool from the floor, some wrench or another that she used to whack Kenny across the face.

It left a long, angry red line across the man's sunken cheek.

"_Leave_," Mikasa snarled. She lowered the wrench, and then pressed it to the man's throat, her one eye swollen shut and her other eye ablaze with all her fury and all her disgust.

Blood trickled down Kenny's pasty cheek, and he shot her a lopsided grin.

"You're just like him," he chuckled, a short, pained sound. To Armin's immense discomfort, he managed to pat Mikasa's cheek before ducking another swing, and sauntering like a fucking fool out of the garage, past Armin and Jean and into the muggy daylight.

Jean ran to watch the motorcycle leave, and Armin listened to it rev up. The moment the sound of it was drowned out into the distance, he witnessed Mikasa crumple. For the first time in a very long time, Mikasa folded in on herself, and she dropped to her knees, her wrench clattering from her hands.

She was breathing very loudly.

"Mikasa…?"

Armin drifted to her side, dropping down and rubbing reassuring circles into her back. She was not crying, not yet, but he saw the tears glistening in her eyes, and he heard her sobbing in spite of the absence of them. He closed his eyes, and he leaned his face into her hair, hugging her tight as she took deep gulps of breaths, staving off what Armin could only imagine was a panic attack.

He was surprised he wasn't reacting the same, but perhaps it was better this way.

Mikasa didn't often succumb to her absolute and undeniable fear of Kenny Ackerman, but when she did, she had difficulty reawakening from her slump of terror and despair. The last time this had happened, Eren had still been around. Now, though, Armin was all alone, and she was shaking so badly, and so was he, and he was so scared too, so how could either of them be anything but blubbery messes?

Armin missed Eren.

Eren would know what to do.

Instinctively, Armin grasped Mikasa's cheeks. One was badly bruised, her cheekbone reddened and bloated.

"Hey," he whispered to her, tears thickening his voice. He was smiling through them, and that seemed to surprise her. "Close up for today… okay?"

She stared at him, her one visible eye searching his face frantically, glassily. And then, vacantly, she nodded. Her gaze had landed, her mouth parted and her body relaxing in his arms.

"Okay," she croaked.

She was staring behind him.

Armin felt a great pressure release him, relief washing over him as he realized that they were free of Kenny Ackerman, at least for a bit. He smiled into Mikasa's fluffy black hair, and in response she rubbed his head.

"I love you," she whispered.

"Yeah," he whispered back, sniffling and smiling, "I love you too."

She wrapped her arms around him tighter. She hugged him, and his bones hurt, his very skeleton bending beneath her grasp.

"No matter what happens," she mumbled, her lips very close to his ear, her breath hot against his neck, "no matter what, I need you to promise me something."

"Of course." He wanted to pull back, to look her in the face, but she was trembling too badly, and he felt her tears against his throat. Her cheek was resting on his shoulder, her eyelashes catching in his hair.

She was very quiet, and he wondered if she was having trouble speaking. He wondered what she was thinking. Then without warning she pulled back, and she wiped at her cheeks hastily.

"Promise me," she said in a weary voice, "that you'll never change."

_How on earth can I promise that? _

He sat on the concrete floor, warmth somewhat returning to his achy muscles. He stared into her face, swollen and discolored, bruised and battered, and he nodded firmly.

"Okay," he said. "I'll try my best."

She did not smile, nor did her expression really change, but he sensed her contentment in the way that her body seemed to slump into his, and she hugged him as though her life would slip from between his stubby, bandaged fingers. He closed his eyes, and he listed to her breathing.

After that, Armin became alert again. He wasn't sure what had happened to him previous to the encounter with Kenny Ackerman, but it was as though something had snapped him back into place, and he felt rejuvenated, liked someone had poured ice cold water over his head. Perhaps he'd jumped into Titan's Maw again without even realizing it.

That's what it felt like, at least.

Jean was watching him very closely, and Armin realized he was doing that thing where he monitored Armin's every movement to be sure he was, like, functioning normally. He was such an unbearable asshole, but he was a _caring_ unbearable asshole. Also, Armin couldn't pretend like he wouldn't do the same if the situations were swapped.

First thing he did as a reawakened adult was give the file back to Annie.

"You look okay," she noted when she met him at that café he'd meant to meet her at a week prior.

"Just okay?" he asked, his eyebrows rising. "Oh…"

"You look good, I guess," she blurted, her brow furrowing in bemusement. He wanted to laugh, but he felt like it might be too cruel.

He smiled at her. "I was just teasing you," he said, holding out the file. "I look like shit."

"No," she said, taking the folder. "You've looked a lot worse."

"You're just really building up my self esteem here, Annie."

She drummed her fingers against the folder, looking as bored as she normally did. Armin sometimes wondered if her what appeared to be disinterest was really just a dull sadness that was perpetually rooted in her features. He wondered, and he wished. He wished they were both different types of people. That they weren't both so painfully shy, and so painfully, obviously terrible. Especially to each other.

"Can I ask," Annie said slowly, "what you've found out?"

Found out?

Well, honestly…

"Nothing," Armin said, rubbing his forehead and feeling beneath his bangs the rough bump and the scab that had formed over it. "Not yet, anyway. I'm still looking into it, but my… injury… that just threw me way off. I don't even know where to begin again."

"Try his parents," Annie said.

"I don't think they'd be happy to see me," he sighed. "Last time…"

"Yeah, I remember." Annie eyed him, her piercing gaze enough to make any sane man squirm. Armin wondered why he liked her so much. "What if I came with you?"

Armin actually did have to consider that. The last time he'd seen the Jaegers, it had been… an awkward situation at best. He didn't particularly want to reopen old wounds, and he couldn't imagine the Jaegers knew anything he didn't already know. But then again, it'd be wrong to rule them out completely.

"Maybe we can do that," Armin said. He hadn't intended on fully initiating Annie into his investigation, but considering she'd risked her job for him, he felt obligated. "I want to gather more evidence first. I just…" He sighed. "I don't understand how he could've just disappeared. Out of nowhere."

She stared at him. And she shrugged.

"Sometimes people just…" She glanced up at the ceiling, and he could see the circles under her eyes, the lines and lines that indicated she slept just as little as Armin did. "Sometimes people just leave and don't come back. It's part of life, Armin."

"Not without a trace," he said. "And not Eren. Never Eren."

Jean followed Armin with a camera when he left the apartment sometimes, and more often than not filmed him pouring over the file Annie had given him. What Armin had figured out is that Eren had left his house at around eleven the night he'd disappeared, and considering he'd appeared at Armin's window at around three, it gave Armin a good timeframe. It had to have been between three and sunrise, so three and about six in the morning.

Three and six in the morning. Literally anything could have happened.

"This is frustrating," Armin mumbling one night when Jean brought him tea. Armin was sitting at the living room table, gnawing restlessly at the cap of his highlighter, and wriggling it between his teeth when Jean set up his camera and sat down. "Stop filming me."

"Look, it's interesting okay?" Jean smirked. "Don't even worry about it, I'm gonna chop most of the cram stuff. I just need to make sure I get everything on camera."

Armin was going through the list of witnesses. He was at the top, unfortunately. One of the reasons why the Jaegers really didn't want to talk to him anymore. No matter their kindness, they held a certain resentment toward him for being the last person to actually see Eren. Mikasa was also on the list, and, strangely enough, Christa Lenz. Less commonly known by her real name, Historia Reiss.

Armin had actually spoken to Historia about this way back when the disappearance had first happened. She'd been working a late shift at the local antique store, and had been about to close up when Eren had come in for something. Armin didn't really remember the rest, but her alibi held up because she'd slept at Ymir's that night, and Ymir's the security cameras at Ymir's building confirmed that.

Not that Historia Reiss had the physical attributes to actually harm Eren Jaeger, but still. It was apparent that the cops had at least begun to dig deeper into the possibility of a crime.

Clearly they had not gotten very far.

He highlighted Historia's name to remind himself to go talk to her about Eren.

"Who's Christa Lenz?" Jean asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Oh." Armin sometimes forgot that Jean wasn't totally familiar with the group of friends Armin had had in high school. "A friend of mine. She also saw Eren the night he disappeared."

"You, Mikasa, this Christa girl…" Jean peered at the papers, and he snorted. "Don't you have any reliable witnesses?"

"Am I not reliable?" Armin asked, taking mock offense by pressing his hand to his chest.

Jean rolled his eyes. "You're like," Jean said, indicating with his thumb and forefinger, "marginally reliable on some particular things. Okay?"

"Well if that's so," Armin said, snapping his highlighter shut, "then you're not even remotely reliable. Not at all, really."

"Now you're just being mean."

"You started it."

Jean opened his mouth to retort, when he paused. Armin took a sip of his tea, noting that Jean could not make tea to save his life, but it had been a kind gesture, so Armin drank it anyway. There was too much cream and not enough honey, giving the tea a flavorless, but still very bitter taste. Icky.

Armin perked up.

"You heard it too," Jean whispered.

Armin glanced at him.

For a moment— just a little moment, a flicker of a second— Armin had thought he'd heard the soft, muffled cacophony of distant wailing.

Not a siren, not a whistle.

A child sobbing.

A child.

But he did not hear that any longer, and it was unlikely it had really been anything. He rubbed his head, and he shrugged.

"Maybe Mikasa's watching something on her computer," he offered.

"Maybe…" Jean didn't look so sure.

Armin took a great gulp of his tea, and it scalded the roof of his mouth. It tasted foul, but he needed it desperately, and his eyes were burning a bit from exhaustion. He'd never say it, though.

"It seems like," he said, chewing his bottom lip, "Christa saw Eren first… probably at about eleven or eleven thirty— the antique shop she works for closes at eleven, but she probably let him in later because she knew him. Then it's pretty up in the air what he did, but between… probably about midnight and three, he visited Mikasa."

"Where's the antique shop?" Jean asked. He whispered it, truly, and Armin had to wonder why.

"Center of town," he replied. "By the bridge, but farther down, like… away from the river."

"So Eren presumably walked there…" Jean leaned back in his seat, frowning at the ceiling. "Then here… then to your house, wherever that was… but that couldn't take the amount of time he was gone for, right?"

"No." Armin glanced over the list of witnesses. Carla and Grisha Jaeger. Historia. Him. Mikasa. No one else was on this list, and that was immensely disconcerting. There had to be some other people who'd seen Eren that night, considering the time frame. "The problem is that we still have no idea what Eren wanted me to see in the woods. Not even Mikasa knows, and she was there."

"Yeah…" Jean's voice was barely over a whisper. "About that…"

Armin had expected this. Jean didn't know Mikasa like Armin did, and so it was natural that he suspected her, even in spite of how clearly he was attracted to her. Even Armin had his doubts about how much of the truth Mikasa was telling. He couldn't imagine she knew what had happened to Eren, because of all people she'd be the one to tell, but he sensed she was leaving out key details. Perhaps to shelter him.

"I'm working on it," Armin sighed, gathering up his papers. "I know what it sounds like, but I definitely don't think Mikasa is totally lying when she says she doesn't know what happened. The woods are hard to navigate even in the daytime— they're downright dangerous at night. Titan's Maw literally drops off from a cliff at the outskirts of the woods. Honestly, anything could've happened."

"True," Jean murmured, raising his eyes to Armin's. They were somber. "_Anything_ could've."

Armin's jaw tightened, and he shook his head furiously. "Stop that," he hissed. "I'm not going to suspect Mikasa of anything until I've got more facts."

"The fact that she lied to the police is suspicious enough."

"Of course she lied," he said stiffly, "who wouldn't lie? She was scared, and who knows what happened that night— you know you'd have lied too if say, Marco had gone missing, and you'd blacked out in the woods, and had to explain to the police that you'd just gone with him to keep an eye on him. Like, come on, Jean."

"Okay," Jean sighed, holding up his hands. "Okay, okay. Yeah, I guess I get what you're saying but still, you're awfully calm about the fact that she lied to you."

"I lie to her too," he said simply, blinking up at Jean. "It's really no big deal."

Jean looked at him rather strangely, and Armin wondered if he was the only one that felt that way.

"I think I'm gonna go to bed," Jean said slowly. He leaned over, clapping Armin's folder shut, leaving him feeling a little startled and disoriented. "You should too."

"I'm not tired," Armin objected.

"You're perpetually tired," Jean argued.

"I've never said that, not ever."

"Just go to sleep, man!"

And so Armin, without much of a choice, headed to his room. When he got there, he took note of the walls. Bare, thankfully, of fishhooks, but the damn painting was still up because Armin could not bring himself to take it down. He didn't have that kind of courage, and his curiosity was burning to tear it from the wall, but he understood the repercussions if he did decide to do so. Was he ready for that?

He considered going to his desk and continuing on well into the morning with his research, but he felt as though he'd analyzed every piece of evidence he had several times over. So he actually sat down on his bed, listening to the springs creak, and thinking about Eren, and how different his life would have been if Eren had not disappeared.

He lied down, imagining college years with Eren at his side, imagining the utter bullshit they could've gotten into, the wild ride from start to finish. Armin wondered if he would've pursued investigative journalism if Eren hadn't vanished from the face of the earth without a trace, and he wondered what field Eren would have gone into. Armin felt confident in the idea that he would have gone into a science.

Just as Armin was dozing off, he heard a soft little hiss in the darkness, the faint trailing of something sharp along the smooth surface of the wall beside Armin's ear. His eyes snapped open, but all he saw pale paint and darkness. The sound continued on in a steady pitch and a steady pace, something writhing against the other side of the wall and scratching furiously.

Armin shoved his pillow over his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and began to count down from one thousand in order to keep himself at least somewhat sane.

But the scratching continued.

_Scritch scratch scritch._

_Scritch. Scratch._

On and on for hours.

Armin was forced into trying to sleep with his headphones in just to drown out the frantic sound.

When morning broke, and sun pooled through his wind, splashing across his face while the twiddling little melody of piano strings being struck furious by tiny hammers, the sound of his thoughts shuddering in the dark with every _scritch_ and _scratch_ that smothered the air.

Percussion was strangling him.

He kicked the wall furiously as he leapt out of bed, dragging his hands down his face, shadow and dust swirling around him.

The little sound of nails dragging along the inside of his skull was making his skin crawl.

He felt as though he hadn't slept at all.

_Scritch scratch scritch scratch_.

He squeezed his eyes, taking a deep breath and rationalizing.

There were probably numerous explanations for the sound— a small animal trapped within the crawlspace, or a tree branch rubbing against the roof. But even so, Armin's arms were covered with raised goose bumps, his pale hair starkly on end. The echoing of _scritches_ and _scratches_ were thudding like little fluttering notes inside his muddled brain.

Armin found himself staring at the painting again. What a terrible piece of artwork. Why this painting, anyway?

He pushed his hair from his eyes, whirling around this room a few times. It was definitely the biggest bedroom in the apartment. _Is this Kenny's old room?_ Armin thought, sickened. He inhaled sharply through his nose, strode to the closet. He was going to find out.

Mikasa's father had been Jewish, so it would make sense if Kenny was as well. But somehow Armin doubted it. The man had never struck Armin as particularly pious. Armin saw the closet was something over an organized clutter— large coats and stacked boxes, too many for such a small space. Armin could tell Mikasa had done her best, but what she should have done was thrown all of it away.

Armin pulled out the first box, his muscles cramping, shuddering in protest as he set it down on the floor. He ripped it open.

Inside, Armin was a little surprised to find a stack of books.

He picked one up, examining the cover closely. It was an old book, the leather bound cover peeling away. Armin ran his fingers over the gold inscription that was branded into its face. _A Cult of Walls_, the cover said. Armin flipped through the yellowed pages, and he saw that there was frantic, messy handwriting scrawled all across the margins and over the printed words, paint splashed over numerous pages, completely smeared over a few, and finally Armin came to the last page, which was carefully painted over in white.

Armin's fingers were shaky as he thumbed the final page, trying to make sense of the hasty script.

_Find me in blood_

_In soil so soaked _

_In the waves and the palisades_

_In the shadow and the light_

_Find me _

_**Below**_

A shudder ran through him, his heart clenching as he read these lines. Not because they were inherently scary. But because there was a distinct sound, coming from just behind him, of something rolling across hard wood.

Firstly, he was reminded of a marble drawing across a tabletop, slow and distinct. When he turned his head, he was able to see a wooden ball— about the size of Armin's fist— rolling, rolling, rolling, until finally it hit the dresser with a loud _thump_ and was forced to halt.

"What the…?" Armin whispered, shutting the book and setting it aside. Where had this ball come from?

He retraced the path of it with his eyes, and realized, with a terrible twist of his gut, that it had come from beneath his bed.

_Nope_, he thought, jumping to his feet in blind terror. _Nope!_

He took a deep breath, glancing at the window, watching the sun creep in and flutter through the dimness. His initial instinct was to get the fuck out of this room as soon as possible. The air was thick and chilled, ice chips clogging his ears and eyes and throat. But he was so curious, and so confused— there was always an explanation, right?

Armin wandered to the little wooden ball, and he plucked it up. How could it have rolled from beneath the bed by itself?

_Didn't Sasha say this place was cursed? _

He considered it as he rolled the ball in his palm. It was old and faded, once painted red but now a splotchy brown, with deep gouges marring its sad, once smooth surface.

Armin had seen his fair share of horror movies.

In his case, he was fucked sideways in terms of his life expectancy rate. At this point, he'd already been locked in a dark, damp cellar in the middle of the woods alone, simply because he was curious. That alone should've been a red flag as to how hopeless he'd be in a horror narrative.

However, he hadn't been brutally murdered, so that was good.

Also, he was as virginal as he could get, so as long as there weren't like, virgin sacrifices or anything, he had a good chance there.

Of course, Armin had a mind for logic, so he didn't really _want_ to believe in any of this spooky shit. He'd need some stone cold evidence.

It occurred to him that it could've been The Captain.

Armin knelt down, and he whistled lowly.

"Captain," he called tentatively.

If it was The Captain, that'd explain the scratching for sure. Armin whistled again, crawling closer to the bed, his nervousness pushed aside. He whistled softly, his whistle thin and tremulous, a cumbersome sound on the ridges of his lips. He rolled the ball back beneath his bed.

After about a minute of waiting, the ball did not return.

"Captain…?" Armin was at his wit's end with this one. He didn't dare look under the bed.

He shook his head furiously, deciding that if it was the dog, then whatever. If it wasn't, that'd be really weird and awkward, but it was actually really too early to deal with this bullshit.

Armin left the room, leaving the door open behind him just in case it really was the dog. He wandered into the hall, which was still very dark, and he walked forward with careful footing, squinting through the shadows and the pale shafts of sunlight pooling in from the living room.

In the silence, through Armin's open door, he heard the soft sliding of a wooden ball rolling across a wooden floor.

He walked faster.

When he saw The Captain snoozing on the living room couch, he merely stared at the dog for a good thirty seconds before pivoting back to his room.

He picked up the ball from the floor, and shot a glare at his bed.

"Okay," he said.

Okay.

He sat down with his back pressing to his dresser, and he rolled the ball back under his bed. Sunlight was glittering brightly now, filling the room and turning it a burning white.

The ball was rolled back to him. Without fail, it came slowly fumbling back to Armin's hand, pushed by some unknown force from beneath Armin's bed.

He felt terrified, to be sure.

Thrice more he rolled the ball, and thrice more it returned.

Finally Armin was too curious, too bewildered to even entertain his fear any longer. He crawled to his bed, stopping merely to tilt his head and peer under the space between the mattress and the floor. It was hardly much of a space at all, just a few centimeters that would make it snug for anyone of normal size. His cheek rested against the dusty floor, and he squinted into the darkness below his bed, his breath caught in his throat.

He didn't see anything.

Marginally terrified, but mostly frustrated, Armin decided to make sure he wasn't totally going insane. By reaching under the bed, the ball held tight in his fist.

He was waiting for something to rip his arm off, honestly.

The waiting was agonizing.

He jumped, a shriek spilling from his lips as he felt tiny, stubby nails dragging across his palm as the ball was snatched away. He skittered away from the bed, his breathing heavy and his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic rhythm, percussion booming and blasting, a rise and fall of notes thudding in time with his pumping blood.

He looked down at his hand, holding his wrist tightly in his fist, but when he stared at his palm, there were no scratches, no markings, not even a splinter to suggest the ball had really been there, and it had really been taken by some tiny creature living beneath his bed.

_This place is haunted_, Armin realized with heavy breaths and a short, horrified laugh.

So much for logic.


	5. Chapter 5

**i knew you were coming**

As an information broker, Armin had often found himself in situations when he'd been younger that little kids didn't often find themselves in. For instance, he'd once been cornered by a motorcycle gang, only for the leader to ask for Armin to dig up some dirt on a guy who'd apparently mistreated his dog. Armin had obliged, mostly out of fear, but they gang had actually come back after doing whatever they done with the information, and offered Armin a reward. None of them had cash, but they'd been more than willing to offer their services elsewhere.

That was how Armin had met Reiner Braun, Bertholdt Hoover, and Annie Leonhardt.

Armin had honestly been about twelve, while Reiner and Bertholdt had been about fifteen, and Annie had been about thirteen or fourteen. Armin remembered the sight of Annie riding on the back of Bertholdt's motorcycle, looking painfully small and incredibly irritable in her tiny little helmet.

"Oh, that's not necessary," Armin had blurted, flushing a deep red color as he stared at his shoes. He never knew how to deal with people, especially kind strangers. "It really wasn't difficult to track him down, and he never clears his internet history, so it was kinda just a virus and a memory stick away."

"No, really," Reiner had said eagerly while Annie— tiny, vicious-looking Annie— picked at her nails with a bored expression. "There's gotta be something we can do for you, man."

"Anyone could have done it," Armin had argued.

"Not everyone is as obscure as you are," Annie had said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "You'll never get caught hacking because you're so low priority. You're a total nobody."

"Uh, thanks," he'd said, feeling his self-esteem sinking like a brick to the ocean floor, mud and sand and crushed up bones coughing up inside his chest. "I guess. How'd you guys even hear of me?"

"Oh!" Reiner had grinned, leaning over the handlebars of the bike he no longer owned for various reasons, but mostly because he'd totaled it. "Well we know Ymir, who knows Christa…"

"Who knows Eren," Annie said, "who knows you."

"Eren told you I'd hack for you?" Armin had squeaked.

"He said the guy who beat the dog deserves whatever hell we decided to put him through," Reiner laughed. "What a guy!"

"Yeah…" Armin smiled wanly, though he mentally noted to have a little chat with Eren about advertizing Armin's hacking abilities. "What a guy…"

After that, Armin had gotten into the business of actually dealing information. It had been a weird few years. Armin dealt cases he'd never dreamed of dealing, and he did investigations that would later help him cruise through his college courses. He was lucky he had past experience in these types of things, but he had to be careful nowadays, because most of what he did as a teenager was not exactly legal.

At the age of thirteen, Armin was legitimately summoned to speak with the Prime Minister. Yeah, that one had scared him just about shitless.

"Is he even allowed to do that…?" Eren had asked, squinting suspiciously at the letter. Mikasa sat quietly across from them, tearing off a chunk of her sandwich and chewing mechanically. They'd been in school at the time of this debacle. Christa Lenz sat at Armin's side, Connie beside her, and Sasha across from him. This was their lunch arrangement. Ymir, Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie all went to different schools, and were in different grades besides.

"He's the Prime Minister," Armin had murmured. "I expect he can do whatever he'd like."

"I wouldn't say that…" Christa had muttered. Back then, Armin hadn't known her real name. No one did, really, not even now. It was a secret that was kind of known, but mostly ignored. No one wanted to acknowledge her bastard status.

"Well," Connie chirped, "I'd say you're pretty fucked, Armin!"

"Thanks…" Armin sunk low into his seat. "I don't think I like being the smart one anymore… Mikasa, let's trade. I'd rather get in trouble for street racing than hacking."

"Maybe it's not even about the hacking," she'd offered.

It hadn't made him feel any better.

What Rod Reiss had wanted from Armin was something he still didn't fully understand.

Armin recalled the distant, awkward feeling of sitting across from the elderly man, sinking further and further into the velvet folds of his chair, and wanting to burst into tears because his terror had become too much to properly bear. The man was small and round, his eyes watery and his lips thin. He stared at Armin with a tight jaw and a furrowed brow.

"So, Mr. Arlert…" He cleared his throat. "I've heard… many interesting things about you."

"I can't imagine why, sir…" he'd murmured. "I'm mostly very average."

"That's not what your aptitude tests say." Reiss held up a thick manila envelope, and Armin stared at it helplessly. "You've actually caught the attention of some prestigious schools all across the country— particularly in the sciences, maths, and linguistics."

"I beg your pardon, sir," Armin had said hesitantly, "but I honestly cannot bring myself to believe you called for me without warning because you want to talk about my test scores. You run this country. You don't have time for that, um… excuse my language, but for that bullshit."

Rod Reiss looked exceptionally surprised, which had caused Armin to flush even more. But the man quickly regained composure, and he nodded.

"Well, Armin, as you might have guessed," Reiss said, "I've heard of you through the grapevine."

Armin swallowed a snappish comment on how unbearably surprising _that_ was.

"Um…" He'd shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "May I ask how?"

"Is that important?"

_Yes?_ He'd blinked rapidly, his mouth dropping open. _Yes, yes, yes! _Armin had been reeling with frustration and fury, but he'd kept himself calm, his eyes wide and his mouth pressed firmly shut, and he shook his head furiously.

"No, sir."

Reiss merely nodded. "So since I'm aware of your… talents, and you now know I'm aware," he said, "let us strike a deal."

Armin had sat with his hands folded in his lap, his heart hammering in his chest.

"Sir?" he whispered.

"I want you," Reiss said, laying his hands flat on his desk, "to find a girl for me."

"Um…" Now, Armin had been thirteen and naïve, but he knew a thing or two about politicians, and he was utterly distraught. "I don't do those kinds of things…"

"You misunderstand me," Reiss sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I want a specific girl. A little girl, perhaps your own age, who lives in Shiganshina. Can you do that?"

"I'd… need a lot more information than that," Armin had said, glancing away from the man's face. "And… incentive to actually give you said info. Sir."

"Done." Reiss tossed a file at Armin, and he'd watched it slide across the desk and nearly tip over the edge. He quickly grabbed it, staring vacantly at the man until he nodded, and Armin opened the folder tentatively. Inside was a photograph paper clipped to a birth certificate.

Historia Reiss. Born January 15th.

Armin glanced at the photograph, and he nearly snapped the file shut.

Well, firstly, Armin had known Christa Lenz for years. He'd known her longer than Mikasa, even. She'd moved to Shiganshina when she'd been six or seven, and had been a very lonely child. Eren didn't really like her, so Armin had often steered clear, but he remembered pitying her. She was a much happier girl now, full of life and laughter and hope.

Secondly, he'd always figured Christa hid behind a little porcelain mask that could crack at any given moment if prodded to harshly.

He just never imagined she'd be hiding something to this extent.

Now he was faced with a dilemma.

"Who's this?" he asked faintly. He did not look at Reiss, but he could practically hear his eyebrow raising.

"My daughter," Reiss said. "My little girl. She… moved, you might say. When she was just a little thing, and I miss her very dearly. If you can return her to me, you'll be rewarded handsomely."

Armin stared at the file, and made a show of flipping through it while in actuality he was memorizing the words on every page. "I don't understand," he said. "If she was kidnapped, why come to me? Why not involve the police?"

"She wasn't kidnapped," Reiss said. "As I said, she moved. It's only just come to my attention that she's in Shiganshina. You should understand, Mr. Arlert, that this— this thing between you and I— should be kept secret. Yes?"

Armin nodded furiously. "Of course," he gasped, already imagining how he'd explain this to Mikasa and Eren, "but I just don't understand what you're asking to me to do. If you already know where this girl is, why don't you just go to her yourself?"

"I'm a very busy man, clearly."

"Yes," Armin agreed. "Yes, of course you are. But honestly, the information you've given me is not enough for me to find some random girl in Shiganshina, and without a real explanation from you, I can't say I _want_ to find her." Armin clapped the file shut. "Was this all you wanted, sir?"

Armin could tell that Reiss was livid, and he didn't blame him. He was pretty aware of how much of a little shit he could be when he tried, and this was one of those times were he felt like he could actually get in serious trouble because of it.

Luckily for him, the door opened behind them. Armin twisted in his seat to see who'd walked in.

"Sir, you have a call on line one from Mr. Ack—" A very young blond man stood in the door way, his blue eyes salient and his face oddly precise and chiseled. He was very well dressed, and Armin assumed that he was a secretary of some sort. He looked a little bemused at the sight of Armin, and so he presumed that Rod Reiss had not really scheduled a meeting with Armin, but instead done this all in secret. In order to get to Christa, who was definitely hiding from him for a reason. "Oh. I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"We've finished, I think," Reiss said.

Armin jumped to his feet, and he nodded quickly to Reiss, hopelessly relieved that he could leave. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you more, sir," he said, putting on an earnest smile. "You should really ask a professional, though, and not just run to the first clever thirteen year old with a laptop you can find."

And with that, Armin left the room, feeling vaguely accomplished, but mostly terrified. He passed by the blond man, who watched him with a piercing stare, and for a moment Armin felt as though he might never be allowed to leave this god awful place, that they'd arrest him on the spot for hacking and for just being downright disrespectful, and he tripped right over himself and fell flat on his face in front of the man.

"Oh!"

Armin felt like crying, but he was too embarrassed to move, so instead he cupped his face, blinking the stars from his eyes as a large hand landed on his back. His face was throbbing, the overwhelming taste of blood crashing like waves upon his tongue and teeth, spitting and roaring and hissing in his head. It ran hot and sticky in slim, dark trails down from his nostrils, and he could not see a blessed thing as the man propped him upright.

"Are you okay? Excuse me…?" He felt a hand on his cheek, and he turned his head away, sniffling and instantly regretting it as blood shot up through his nostril and mixed with the phlegm at the back of his throat. He gagged. "Oh. Oh my. Sir, may I bring this boy to the bathroom to—"

"Yes, yes, fine." Reiss sounded irritated beyond belief. "Just go."

Armin had found himself being dragged to a bathroom, the entire area he'd been in so painfully foreign that at that point he was just used to being alienated and scared out of his wits. He regained his sight, only to be mildly terrified of this strange man who'd pulled him into a bathroom and propped him up on a toilet seat. He knelt down before Armin, examining his face closely. Armin had held his breath and his tears.

"That was a pretty nasty fall," said the man, rolling a wad of toilet paper around his knuckles. "Ah, my apologies… my name is Erwin Smith. I'm Mr. Reiss's current secretary."

_I was right_, Armin had thought triumphantly as the man carefully mopped up the blood from his mouth and nose and chin.

"Armin," he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred from blood and a biting pain.

"Armin," Erwin repeated, smiling genially. "You seem like such a nice boy. What on earth did Reiss want with you?"

Armin had actually groaned, rubbing the rather large goose egg that had formed on his forehead, a purplish bump that had taken weeks to go away, and he'd merely shaken his head.

"Honestly, Mr. Smith," he'd sighed, "I just don't know. He didn't really try to explain what he wanted me to do, so I kinda… just declined. Can I even do that? Am I gonna go to jail?"

Erwin stared at him with a somewhat bewildered gaze. "Of course not." The man held the paper to Armin's nose to staunch the rest of the blood, which he was very thankful for. His entire head felt like a series of pressure points being hit with one hammer after another after another after another in quick, vicious successions. "Armin, you should have never been called here in the first place. How old are you?"

"Um…" He had to actually think about it. "Thirteen?"

Erwin nodded, though he looked vaguely confused. "That's very young," he said. Armin had flushed. "Where are you from?"

"Shiganshina…" Armin held the toilet paper to his nose, his voice muffled. "It's right outside of Trost, um— a tiny town with—"

"I know where it is," Erwin interrupted. For the first time, he looked actually very frightening, his face shadowed and his piercing blue eyes flashing. "I… actually used to live there."

"Oh." Armin didn't know what else to say. "Well, I like it."

"It's a very nice place to grow up…"

"Yes."

They'd made some meager small talk after that, but inevitably Armin got a call from his grandfather and was forced to leave without actually broaching the topic of why Erwin Smith seemed to hate Shiganshina so much. And Armin was certain this man hated it.

He'd never seen Erwin Smith nor Rod Reiss again, and honestly, he still had no idea what the meeting had actually been about.

But in the end, he'd never told Eren and Mikasa about Reiss or Historia. He'd kept that secret to himself, and sometimes he felt like maybe he really should not have.

After all, nothing about it made sense.

* * *

><p>"Um," he said at breakfast. He'd been sitting at the kitchen table for a good hour, staring at the dust gathering on the surface while scratching at his knuckles. "So… this apartment is haunted."<p>

Mikasa had paused outright in pouring her coffee to stare at him, while Jean rested his cheek on his fist tiredly, and nodded.

"Sounds about right," he said.

Armin sat, a little astonished. "You believe me?" Armin asked in disbelief. "Just like that?"

"Dude, did you _hear_ that scratching last night?" Jean gave a visible shudder, and he grimaced. "That shit was demonic."

"Scratching?" Mikasa asked absently, sitting down. "Are you sure it wasn't The Captain?"

"It was coming from _inside_ the walls!" Jean threw his hands up in distress. He threw Armin a desperate look. "You can vouch for me, right? It came from inside the walls!"

"Yeah," Armin said, glancing sheepishly at Mikasa. "It came from inside the walls."

Mikasa seemed to consider this as she rested the coffee pot down. She looked a little disheveled, her oversized tee shirt slipping from one shoulder and her hair knotted up and around her face. She had dark circles under her eyes, and Armin frowned at her. She looked as though she'd slept as little as Armin had.

"Weird," she said, rising to her feet once more and decidedly chugging the scalding coffee from the pot. Jean and Armin watched in vague shock as she set the pot back on the stove and wandered from the room.

"Is she okay?" Jean blurted.

Armin leaned back. It wasn't too strange, not for Mikasa, but Armin glanced at the mug she'd left on the table, half filled and steaming.

"I don't know," he whispered.

Armin did not want to go into his room to get changed, and he admitted as much to Jean, who actually gave him a sharp look of indignation.

"Dude," he said, "this place isn't _that_ scary."

Armin didn't know how to explain the strange phenomena that had occurred that morning with the ball and the bed, so instead he sucked it up and laughed sheepishly, as though he were not utterly terrified. He went to his room, feeling a little foolish as he tip toed across the cool wooden floor, gathering up his clothes and skirting around his bed. He ended up getting dressed in the bathroom out of paranoia.

He and Jean had agreed on one thing. Today, they would approach Historia Reiss.

They left the house early enough, tossing ideas back and forth on where to start. Armin wasn't sure on Historia's schedule, but they figured they could check the antique store by the afternoon. Until then, the wandered a bit around town, which Armin sort of dreaded, because he saw familiar faces of old schoolmates wherever he went. Connie and Sasha were likely at school, or sleeping, or both.

Armin was reminded that he had not seen Reiner or Bertholdt since he'd returned home.

"So what do we consider "finished" for this investigation?" Jean asked, tearing at the top of a still hot muffin and tossing it into his mouth. "I mean, obviously we'll never close the case, but we can probably at least give a few decent theories."

"We'll end the investigation when I know what happened to Eren," Armin said firmly. "That's it."

Jean made a face, a twisted grimace that showed that he really did not care for Armin's reply. "You know that we're working with nothing, right?" Jean tilted his head. "Like, as in, we are fumbling in the dark here trying to find a dumb kid who went missing seven years ago!"

"Don't call Eren dumb," Armin snapped. Jean looked actually remorseful, and he swallowed thickly, nodded a slow little nod that proved just how careless he'd been. "And anyway, go home if you really don't care about finding out the truth."

Jean swore under his breath, and he picked up his pace to match the beat of Armin's feet against the pavement. "You know I didn't mean anything by it," he sighed. "I just… fuck, it's not like I knew the guy, okay? I'm sure he was a perfectly nice person."

"Actually," Armin admitted sheepishly, "I'm pretty sure you two would hate each other."

Jean blinked rapidly. He took a steaming chunk of muffin and tossed it in the air, catching it between his teeth. "Huh," he said.

Of course Armin understood how removed Jean was from the situation. Armin wished he could remove himself, considering how personal this investigation really was. If he didn't figure out what happened to Eren Jaeger that night, Armin felt as though he might truly go insane.

They made it to the antique store just as Historia was arriving, a heavy psychology book in her arms and a schoolbag over her shoulder. She held the door open for them without noticing Armin. He supposed it was because his face was significantly higher than her eyelevel now, and she just didn't bother to look up.

It was a quaint little store that was almost out of the way in terms of location, positioned near the end of the old narrow alleyway that held the loosened brick that Eren and Armin had once used to communicate. Armin glanced at the brick as he passed it, but he refrained from examining it. A sign hung from the mantel of the shop door, a hand painted relic that was half faded by time and weathered by nature. He found himself appreciating the place, in a nostalgic, sentimental sort of way.

"Good morning," Historia gasped, hurrying to the front desk and dropping her book and her bag. Armin watched her amusedly. She still did not recognize him. "Sorry, I just got out of class— if you need any help, just ask me."

Jean stared at her, and Armin could already hear him thinking, _Wow, what a nice girl!_ And he supposed she was, on some level, but he was one of the few people who knew the difference between Christa Lenz and Historia Reiss, and it was truthfully a yawning chasm between polite and demure and utterly lost in self-loathing.

Well, truth be told, Armin could really identify with Historia Reiss.

"That's totally fine," Jean said, pulling out his camera. "Actually we wanted to ask you a few questions, if that's okay."

Armin had already wandered to a large bookcase, his eyes glittering with lust as he dragged his fingers across the old leather spines, cracks and creases thumping along the ridges of his fingertips. He turned his head backwards at Jean, stifling a laugh.

"Way too forward!" he gasped, dragging his thumb over a crude little carving of a face into the spine of one of the tomes. He pulled it from its place, peering at the rough little picture that seemed to have been drawn in with a penknife. He turned the book over to its cover, and the title hit him like a solid punch to the jaw.

_The Cult of Walls_.

Oh, not this thing again.

He tucked the book under his arm and tried not to think about it too hard. He failed. The likelihood of him coincidentally stumbling upon the same book twice in one day was unlikely at best, and he did not like the odds. He was rightfully creeped out.

"Um…" Historia sounded vaguely bemused, and possibly a little frustrated. "I'm sorry, but… who are you?"

"The name's Jean. I'm doing a documentary about a kid who went missing here a few years ago, you might've known him— Eren Jaeger?" Jean was purposefully testing Historia to gauge a reaction. Though Armin couldn't say he disapproved, he wished Jean wouldn't. He simply didn't have the tact for it.

Armin peeked out from behind the bookshelf and watched the tiny girl. Her expression had gone very blank, and she watched Jean with dead eyes.

"If you want to know about what happened to Eren," she said, "go to the police."

"Been there," Jean said. "They did a shit job investigating his disappearance. There was basically no information— except that you were one of the last people to see him. Care to share?"

She continued to stare, and Armin sensed her discomfort. She averted her gaze, her mouth opening and closing, and he could tell she was nervous. He decided to put her out of her misery, and stop Jean while he was ahead.

"Quit teasing her, Jean," Armin sighed, striding up to his side. Historia's eyes landed on him, and for a moment they lingered before they grew big and wide and glittery.

"Armin!" she cried, clapping her hands against the desk in shock. "Oh! Oh, gosh, I didn't even…" She smacked her forehead in irritation. "Ah! Stupid! I didn't even notice you here!"

"It's because of my dashing good looks, I suppose," Jean said dryly. Historia glanced at him, and Armin closed his eyes. "Wow. Chill, guys, it was a joke."

"I'm sorry to bother you, Christa," he said, carefully moving closer to the desk. "Especially during work. I would've texted you to come hang out with us, but honestly, I think you changed your number."

"I did," she said quietly, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "I… kept getting really weird calls. So I changed my number, and… yeah." She stared down at the register, and she began to pick at the paint on her fingernails. "So… um, Eren?"

"Yeah." Armin nodded, resting the book on the Wall Cult down on the desk. "I'm investigating his disappearance. Not as fun as you might expect."

"I wouldn't think it'd be fun at all," she whispered. "Especially not for you…"

Armin didn't know how to reply. He'd been joking, but he didn't know to what extent, and she was absolutely right. None of this was fun. He wanted to tear his skin off every day, every hour, every minute, every single second and every single breath a chore because of the terrible, maddening doubts that crossed his mind consistently.

"It's really not that bad," he said, smiling at her wanly. She looked at him warily. "I mean, I went to school for this stuff, so I have to like it at least a little bit." He eyed her psychology book, and he pointed to it. "Hey, so how's that going?"

"I have a while to go before I can get my PhD," she said, smiling wanly back at him. "But I'm okay. Thank you for asking."

"Sorry for busting your ass," Jean said sheepishly. "I couldn't help it."

"It's okay."

No it wasn't. But Armin didn't say anything. He merely glanced at Jean, and wished he could feed it into his mind just how much of an ass he was. But he probably didn't need to, considering Jean was painfully self-aware.

"Do you want to exchange new numbers?" Armin asked Historia, pulling his phone from his pocket. She stared at him, and she nodded eagerly.

"Oh," she gasped. "Yes, of course!"

He couldn't tell if it was something she truly wanted, or if she was just being fucking polite. She put her number into his phone, and he did the same to hers while Jean stood awkwardly, an outsider all in all.

"So," Armin said, tucking his phone back into his pocket, "about Eren…"

Historia was a petite girl, Armin's age but appearing half of it, with a round face and round eyes and fluffy blonde hair that curled around her rosy cheeks. She was a child, perpetually, and she looked at him with sympathy. He could never tell if it was forced or not, which was a constant bother to him. He want to know how genuine she was. He certainly knew he was hardly the most genuine person when it came to things like this. Mikasa was flat out about if she cared about something or not.

Eren had always been genuine.

Armin wished he could be half the person Eren was.

"You want to know what happened that night," Historia clarified. Jean had his camera trained on her, and she glanced at it warily. "I told everything to the police, you know…"

"Yeah, well," Armin sighed, "clearly they weren't good at keeping track of things. There's literally almost zero info about Eren's disappearance. So can you go through what happened that night again for us? Please?" He gripped the old desk tightly, and managed to shoot her an awkward smile. "I'll buy you coffee."

"Uh…" She looked startled. "That's honestly not…"

"Take the coffee," Jean whispered loudly. "He's super stingy, this offer might never pop up again."

"I'm not stingy…" Armin said vacantly, his brow furrowing.

"Um, okay," Historia said hastily, looking more and more uncomfortable as time went on. "Well, to start with, it was awhile ago, so my memory is a little hazy. I know it was really late, and I was really tired, and just about ready to lock up for the night. Actually, I was really young when this happened. I think I've worked here for a little too long…"

"You practically own the place," Armin joked. She smiled at him weakly.

"Um… yeah, right…" She smoothed her hair back from her face and took a deep breath. "Anyway, it was late, and I was really tired as I was getting ready to lock up, so at first I didn't really notice Eren come in. He was kinda… er, how can I put this nicely…"

"Fucked up?" Armin offered. He understood what she was saying. Eren had seemed off, even in Armin's vague memories.

"Yeah…" She bit her lower lip nervously, glancing at Jean's camera and then quickly averting her gaze. "Yeah, he wasn't really… himself, you know? He came into the store and went straight to the book section, I guess, but I had no idea he was even in here, so I turned around—" Historia motioned with her hands, and then promptly whirled so her back was facing them. "— Like this, right? I turned around for just a few seconds to put the money from the register in the bag for the owner. And when I turned around again…" She turned to face them, her eyes gauzy and dim. "Eren was standing right there."

For some reason, Armin felt a chill strike down his spine. Jean pointed to where Armin stood, turning the camera onto him.

"Right there?" he asked.

"Yeah." Historia nodded. "He had a bunch of books with him, which I wanted to ring him up for, but he said he didn't have any money, and he wanted to put them on hold. So I did." She closed her eyes, and Armin could see the resignation there. "For six years. The owner of this place never really comes down, so I have free reign, mostly, and I just… never felt like it was right to sell them." She glanced between Armin and Jean, wringing her hands anxiously. "I'd always hoped Eren would come back to get them… but…"

It was a difficult thing, realizing someone loved dearly was in all probability gone forever. Armin had been holding out hope, building himself up to be the _only_ person who could find Eren, but truthfully, Eren was lost, Eren was so lost, and Armin was feeling that crushing despair now, the hissing, clawing fears that dug into him and leaked the bitter truth into his bloodstream.

He felt as though some unseen force was crushing his throat, clenching it hard and laughing at his sadness. He kept his tears at bay, and nodded to Historia.

"So, um…" Historia flushed, and she glanced up at the ceiling. "Honestly, that's about it? If I'd known that'd be the last time I ever saw him, I… I wouldn't have just let him leave the store, you know…?"

"He just… put a few books on hold and left?" Jean lowered his camera, looking a little bewildered. "What a weird kid."

"Jean," Armin muttered. He stared at his hands, aware of the glassiness of his eyes. "Cut it out."

"Cut what out?"

Armin knew he couldn't help but be ignorant, but even so it was infuriating to try and communicate with him sometimes. Sometimes Armin wanted to scream at Jean until his throat was sore, and sometimes Armin just wanted to abandon Jean's friendship altogether, to flee from his careless words and harsh opinions.

But Armin was lonely. And Jean was a good friend to have in a bind.

"What happened to the books?" Armin asked Historia, decidedly ignoring Jean.

She looked a little puzzled, her brow creasing. She glanced at the book Armin had set on the desk. "Uh…"

Armin followed her gaze.

"Oh," he said. Inwardly, he wanted to tear his face off. _No fucking way_, he thought, picking up _The Cult of Walls_ by its spine. "This one?"

"Yeah…" Historia tilted her head, her pale hair curling softly around her cheeks. "It's so strange that you both picked that up. It's… such an obscure little book… I don't even know who sold it to us…"

"Has it been here awhile?" Armin opened the book, flipping hesitantly to the copyright page, he saw, distressed, that it'd been torn out_. I should check the book at home_, he thought.

"Honestly?" Historia gave a meager shrug. "I guess so, I mean I have no idea. As long as I've worked here, which you know has been awhile. Oh, but besides that one, he had two other books he wanted."

Armin stared at her intently, and he nodded. "Yes?" he asked eagerly.

"I-I don't have them, though," she said hurriedly, waving her hands. "I sold one of them, a pretty new book on the history of Shiganshina— and the other was a weird old witchy book that got stolen years ago. Good riddance, honestly, it looked downright satanic."

"And Eren wanted that," Armin clarified. Historia blinked at him, and nodded slowly.

"I can't imagine what for…" she whispered, glancing at the Wall Cult book warily. "But I'm sure Eren had his reasons… he always did have his own way of doing things."

"Yeah…" Armin could not deny it. Eren had always been hard to pin down, hard to understand fully, hard to truly catch in one state. He was so mercurial, and so brilliant and bold and bewildering. Armin tried to remember what it was like to be around such a breathtaking person, but in truth he could not imagine such elation any longer.

"Sounds pretty shady to me," Jean whistled. "But then again, nothing about this investigation really seems to add up right, so what the hell do I know?"

Historia looked down at her hands, and Armin wondered if she was keeping something from them. He wouldn't put it past her. They'd never spoken about that day, the day Armin had been called to meet Rod Reiss, who had been interested in finding his incognito daughter. Armin still did not completely understand what had motivated the man to call upon a thirteen year old to do such work, but he had a feeling that in spite of the fact that he'd refused to give Reiss Historia's fake identity, he'd found her anyway.

He wondered if she knew that. If she was even remotely aware of who her father even was.

"Thanks, Christa," Armin told her earnestly. She nodded at him, looking a little astonished, with her blue eyes all big and alarmed. "How much is the book?"

"Oh." She leaned back, snatching the book from him and peering at the inside cover. "Um, just give me two Euros."

"It's not two Euros," Armin stated in flat objection. She merely shrugged, tossing it back onto the desk.

"Who else is going to buy that book?" she asked vacantly.

"Dude," Jean whispered. "Take the deal."

"But I feel bad…" Armin whispered back weakly.

"Christ…" Jean muttered, shoving his camera into Armin's messenger bag and digging through his pocket.

"Jean—!" Armin squeaked as his friend tossed two one Euro coins onto the desk, grabbing the book and nodding to Historia. "No, wait, I can—!"

"Oh, shut up," Jean scoffed, shoving him toward the door. "Thanks for the info by the way, Christa."

"No problem," she replied, plucking the coins from the desk. She glanced at them as Jean ushered Armin out. "I… I hope to see you both again soon."

"Y-yeah!" Armin gasped, blinking rapidly as he was shoved out the door. He stumbled, whirling on Jean with a furious look that was hopefully more intimidating than it felt. "What the hell, Jean?"

"You're not telling me everything," Jean said very sharply. His expression remained unchanged, but Armin knew he was angry, and possibly a little hurt. "What the hell is with that book? What do you know about this that you're not saying?"

"I don't…!" Armin took a step away, utterly taken aback by Jean's sudden accusation. Of course it was true, Armin was hiding things, but he just didn't know how to react to _anyone_ calling him out on it.

"What is this, then?" Jean held up _The Cult of Walls_, and Armin bit his lip and found himself wondering the very same thing. "Do you have any idea why Eren would be into this weird Wicca shit?"

"Okay, first of all," Armin said, "this has nothing to do with Wiccans, holy shit. I think the word you're looking for is pagan."

"Whatever!" Jean groaned, ruffling his hair irritably. "Pagan, then! Just— just think about it for a sec, will you? Eren started acting super weird before he disappeared, right? He went to this store to get these weird books on some obscure cult, and some witchy stuff, and then he went to your house and asked you to _come into the woods with him_." Jean's eyebrows were raised very high, and Armin just could not for the life of him understand why he'd be suggesting such a thing.

"We used to sneak out all the time," Armin replied. "It's not that weird."

"Into the woods? At three in the morning?" Jean shoved the book into Armin's chest, and he laughed a little cynically. "The fucking _witching_ hour!"

Armin tilted his head in awe. "Are you accusing Eren of being a witch?" he asked curiously.

"No, I'm just…" Jean sighed, and he just shook his head, because he had no words. Armin heard his loss, and it drifted in the air, cut from him and left to drift aimlessly until it wilted and withered, a path untaken and left to die at Jean's lips.

"I understand what you're saying," Armin said gently, "but I honestly don't think Eren was following a cult. He wasn't the type of person to believe in just anything, and this… this thing?" Armin held up the book, and shook his head furiously. "This isn't Eren."

"Okay, so wanna tell me what this all means, then?" Jean looked a little impatient, but Armin just could not answer. He didn't know, did he? He was still piecing things together, and this book was just the cherry on top of the freaky things that had happened just today alone.

"Actually," Armin admitted, glancing down at the book, "I found this exact book in my room this morning."

Jean stared at him blankly. "You're joking," he said dully. Then he laughed bitterly, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Of course you're not! Okay, humor me. Why would this book be in your room?"

"I… I don't really know…" He bit his lip, and wondered if he should tell Jean about the ball from beneath his bed. He decided he didn't want to be called crazy, and kept the thought of the sensation of chilly nails dragging across his palm buried in the back of his mind. "It was in my closet, and… it had a lot of weird writings in it. A lot of the pages were painted over, and stuff." He scratched his knuckles nervously, his eyes turning toward the end of the alley where the loose brick occupied its hollow space. "There was something… real weird about the last page, actually."

"Tell," Jean insisted eagerly.

Armin began to drift subconsciously toward the old brick, not caring if Jean followed or not. He tucked the book in his bag, his stubby nails snagging on the dry skin of his bony knuckles.

"Find me in blood," Armin said. "In soil so soaked. In the waves and the palisades. In the shadow and the light." Jean was following at a close distance, eying him warily. "Find me _below_."

"Below?" Jean repeated distantly. "Wow, what the hell…?"

_What the hell_, Armin thought. _That might just be right_.

"It freaked me out a lot," he said, running his fingers along the protruding bricks, his knuckles itching so very badly, badly, badly. His bones drummed along the bumpy rock, rusty red and washed out from rains and winds gone past. "And before you start suspecting Mikasa again, my room used to be Kenny's."

"_Kenny_?" Jean asked, visibly disturbed by this, his expression twisting in disgust. "That motherfucker… what would he be doing with a book like that?"

Armin tossed his head from side to side, shrugging as he genuflected before the old brick. "No idea," he said, digging his fingers into the crease between the grout and the brick.

"Okay, what are you doing on the ground? What are you even…?" Jean sounded so exasperated, and it was almost amusing by this point. "Get up, Armin, holy shit, you're going to contract some disease. Or something. Get up."

"First of all, you're exaggerating," he replied, wriggling the brick free. "Second of all, I need to check something."

This time, Armin didn't look inside the empty rectangular space in the wall. Instead he glanced at the hollowed brick, and his breath caught inside his throat. _No way_, he thought breathlessly. He slid the brick toward him, and captured the little slip of paper, a torn bit of a news clipping smeared with mud.

"Oh my god…" Armin breathed, holding the paper up to the sunlight. Jean was speechless behind him, and in his shock he knelt as well, his hand landing on Armin's shoulder for support.

"'Don't go'," Jean read slowly, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Don't go where? What is this…?"

"I left a note," Armin whispered, his fingers gripping the paper shakily, "for Eren… the day I hit my head under that shack, remember?"

"Oh… yeah, I remember that…"

"I left a note," he said, feeling close to hysterical. "I thought that maybe Eren might be hiding, so I… I asked what happened to him… I didn't expect a reply, I mean—!" He laughed in disbelief. "I'd _hoped_, but this—? This is beyond anything I'd ever expected!"

"No way, though," Jean muttered, shaking his head furious. "Nah. It can't really be Eren, can it? Also, why is it in mud?"

_Maybe he didn't have anything else to write with_, Armin thought. "It's Eren," he murmured. "I can tell."

"How?"

"I just know, okay?"

Jean shook his head once more, jumping to his feet. "Okay, okay," he said, swallowed hard and whirling around. "I should have recorded that, shit!"

Armin examined the note a little more closely as Jean pulled his camera out, training it directly on him. "Don't go…" Armin whispered, thinking very hard and very fast, his mind a jumble of thoughts that could not connect for the very thrumming life of them. "Don't go where, Eren?"

"Armin…" Jean lowered his camera, his tawny eyes frighteningly wide. With awe, with excitement. With fear, maybe. "Armin, look on the back."

Armin had not considered that there might be more to the message. He flipped the tiny, torn bit of newspaper around. And the message, with a great fist to Armin's squirming stomach, became abundantly clear.

"Don't go," Armin exhaled, "into the woods."

Jean watched him, his eyes still huge. Armin wanted to scream, he was so unnerved, so furious with Eren for being so vague and foolish and— and alive. Eren was alive, and Armin was… Armin was just sitting here pondering his fate, like some ignorant child waiting for a birthday wish to be granted. He was trapped in place, kneeling in a dingy alley with a muddy scrap of paper and a hollowed brick to weigh upon his guilty conscience. Eren. Alive.

The words were like magnets.

Attracted in part, but repulsed just the same.

Armin felt sick.

He leapt to his feet, abandoning the brick and pushing off. He ran.

"Armin?" Jean called after him, running along, faster than him by far. "Where are you going? Armin, hey!"

He didn't care. He didn't care what stupid Jean had to say. Eren was alive. Alive!

A note from a missing boy, and Armin's entire world was crumbling like dry clay.

Armin wasn't particularly athletic, so running such a great distance wore him down rather quickly. Even so, he fled across the bridge, snaking between buildings and along back roads until finally he reached the outskirts of the forest. Jean was still shouting, but weaker now, his focus on tailing Armin, not stopping him. The woods were just as thick and treacherous as they'd been on the day of Armin's prior adventure, only now Armin was not alone, and now he knew what he was looking for.

"Where are you even going?" Jean gasped, jogging beside Armin. "You were just warned not to go into the fucking woods, and what do you do?"

Armin paused, his feet skidding against dried leaves, dirt coughing up around him, and he doubled over to heave great gulps of breath, sweat licking down his neck and back, and he imagined what he must look like. A crazed little boy, flushed and teary eyed, panting so heavily that he was keeled over. He didn't know what madness had driven him to run this far, but here he was, and he felt like he needed to run farther, farther still, until he could run no longer, until the ground crumbled beneath his feet and there was nothing but rushing air and tumbling limbs.

He ran his fingers through his hair, and he laughed.

"I feel like," he choked, "I'm running around in circles, following a wisp of a lead over and over. I don't think this is investigating. This is… this is just a game of hide and seek gone wrong…"

"Armin," Jean said breathlessly, camera in hand. "Calm down."

"Right," he murmured, closing his eyes and squeezing them shut. "Right, right. Calm."

"Yeah…" Jean looked at Armin as though he were something very small and very fragile. "Calm. Maybe we should head back to Mikasa. Tell her about all this."

"No." Armin took a deep breath, and he straightened up. "I don't want to tell Mikasa anything unless I know for sure that Eren's actually alive and okay."

Jean stared at him, and he lowered his camera cautiously. "Sounds reasonable," he admitted. "But… come on, was rushing in here really the answer? We should look at the paper, try to figure out where and when it was printed, and determine if the handwriting matches Eren's. Right?" Jean was looking at Armin desperately, and he could sense the grappling, the hasty pleading for some sense of logic from the boy who knew everything. "Right?"

Armin pivoted, listening to the wind snarl through the branches of the trees above him. Leaves hissed, bark creaked, and twigs snapped underfoot as he stepped forward, listening, listening, his nail carving little lies into his knuckles. He ran again.

This time, Jean was left in the dust.

He was running away for reasons unknown to him, fleeing Jean and the world, feeling as though he'd just struck a landmine and his entire body was blown to bits— his brain in gooey, oozy bits, caught on tree branches and dripping from the heavens, mind in the sky, in the clouds, in the stars… and his heart was smashed on the ground with the dirt and the worms and the creepy crawlies that wasted no time attacking and devouring it. And the rest of him?

He was a running corpse, empty of emotion and thought.

He ran because he was strung up on hooks and dragged like an obedient dog.

He could not stop, no matter the weight on his lungs, no matter the tears flooding his ruddy cheeks, no matter, no matter, what's the matter?

He just didn't know.

Blood dribbled down his fingers. Skin caught under his nails.

He only stopped when he realized that he'd run across the forest, trekked uphill and dragged himself to the point where the forest ended and the floor dropped, and there was nothing left of the ground but jagged cliffs and a distant roar of a waterfall. Armin leaned on a tree for support, slumping and half-sobbing, for reasons he could not explain aside from the crushing pain in his chest and the metallic tang washed in his mouth from his burning throat.

_Why am I here?_ he wondered, on his knees and a mess of messes, his nose so close to the softened earth that he could smell the rot and the overturned dirt._ I shouldn't have left Jean. I'm such an idiot. How did I even outrun him? I'm not that fast. I'm not that fast at all_.

He couldn't move, everything hurt so badly.

He listened to the crooning of Titan's Maw, and he wondered.

How many people came here to die?

He turned his face up to the tree beside him, and he saw with bleary eyes that there were gouges and graffiti, love notes and goodbyes. He touched them, and his lower lip trembled so pitifully that he would have laughed at himself if he were not himself.

He didn't feel very much like himself at all.

So he laughed at himself.

Because it was so, so funny.

He was just such an undeniable fool.

His laugh was echoed by the wind.

No, Armin thought wildly, his head jerking upright. No, that wasn't the wind.

Laughter bounced through the trees from the edge of the forest, from the cliff, from the drop down into the palisades.

Armin dragged himself to his feet.

There was someone sitting at the very edge, on a smooth gray boulder that overlooked half of Shiganshina, and the spires of Trost in the distance. Armin could even see the patchwork of the Strip— the dirt road racetrack Mikasa often drove.

He moved closer and closer and closer, his heart thudding hard and his brain roaring up in a snarl of flames and thoughts and anxieties.

Eren.

_Eren_.

"Eren," he mumbled, the name catching on his tongue and cutting holes in his cheeks.

The boy— a boy, he looked like, not a man, just a boy with a face still so painfully round with youth, dark and brilliant and smooth to even look upon— turned his head ever so slightly, his legs kicking precariously over the edge of the cliff. His eyes met Armin's, and it was a moment of loss for them both as they watched each other confusedly, green and blue, crystallized sea foam and rippling fresh water, and Armin wondered, he wondered, he wondered if this was real or if he was still locked in that cellar, still waiting for someone, anyone to rescue him.

He was breathing so hard, so fast, that he realized he was breathing less than he was sobbing.

"Eren," he repeated, one foot moving forward. "Eren…"

Eren's thick eyebrows furrowed, and his lips parted in alarm.

"Armin," he responded hesitantly. His voice echoed softly in the air, a trickle of emotion there, a vague mix of horror and elation.

Armin felt himself decompose in a swift motion, his stitches tugged and his stuffing ripped out, a rag doll without any guts or string, just scraps of fabric and a misshapen face.

He fell to his knees, his sobs swallowed down, his eyes glistening madly. He was silent in his unparalleled sadness.

Eren watched, his eyes widening and narrowing and widening again, his thoughts plain to see upon his face, emotions frantically eclipsing one another as seconds, minutes passed.

"I…" Armin could not breathe.

Eren turned his head away. Something was wrong. Something was wrong here.

And Armin didn't care at all.

"I thought," Armin croaked, dragging bloodied fingers down his eyelids, peering at Eren through the red, for he simply could not tear his gaze away. "I thought you were dead, I thought—" He didn't know what he'd thought. Did it matter now? "I thought…"

Eren's body jolted as though suddenly electrified, his spin all but breaking as he twisted to face Armin. His mouth had dropped open, his jaw slack, and his brow knitted to the point where there were more creases than skin.

"Armin…" Eren said distantly, desperately.

He was crying. He needed to stop crying. It probably made Eren uncomfortable and that was the very last thing Armin wanted. He just… he was so… happy… happy, yes, happy, so happy…

So happy…

He wiped his tears, and gulped down a sob, and he smiled tremulously.

Eren did not smile back.

"Uh," he said, looking very uncomfortable. "This is awkward."

"What?" Armin asked, shaky voice and shaky smile. "W-what's awkward?"

Eren opened his mouth. He shut it. He squeezed his bold green eyes shut, and he shook his head.

"Shit," he muttered. "Armin, I…" He tossed his head back, and looked up at the sky. "I'm…"

He was breathless as he spoke, confused and disbelieving, "You're…?"

Eren finally met his eye again. And this time, he smiled. It was such a nice smile, small but genuine, hard but kind.

"Armin," Eren said, "I _am_ dead."


	6. Chapter 6

**the dead shall remain dead**

The sound of pebbles shook him out of a deep slumber, little rocks colliding with a quick succession of _ting-ting-ting-ting_ across the glass of his window. He blinked blearily, and yawned, rubbing his bleary eyes and squinting at his alarm clock. It was about midnight.

He crawled from bed, his feet dragging against the floor, and he peered out the window. Behold, the face of all things demonic.

Armin had shaken his head in disbelief as he'd pulled up his window.

"Eren," he'd hissed. "It's midnight! You're gonna get in trouble!"

"Nah!" Eren's teeth flashed white in the darkness. "Look, I heard about this cool place outside town. I'm gonna go check it out, you wanna come with?"

"It's midnight!"

"You'll be back before your grandpa even notices!" Eren gasped, nothing but a shifting shadow in the curtain of blackness. His waving hands were shifting blurs, and Armin bit his lip, gripping his windowsill tightly. To trust Eren, or to go back to sleep?

Armin had chosen.

It was Eren.

It was always Eren.

He'd dressed hastily in a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, the late summer night a little breezy, but still too warm to wear trousers. He didn't have a bike of his own because some teenager had stolen his, so he rode on the pegs on the back of Eren's bike, his fingers digging into the boy's shoulder at every twist and turn. Eren did not mind, and it was an exhilarating ride regardless. The night sang around them, a breeze whispering through their hair, crickets crying softly in a shrill rhythm, a frog croaking once ever kilometer or so. Eren had insisted Armin wear his helmet, though it wouldn't really matter much if the crashed. Armin would go flying and likely break every bone in his body anyway.

This had been before they'd ever met Mikasa, a tender age when things seemed nice and simple, where it was a thrill unlike any other to sneak out in the middle of the night and ride a bike so far out of town that the lights of Trost in the great distance were their only guides.

They made it to Strip without any trouble. Eren was pretty good at bike riding, and Armin had pointed out the sounds and the lights coming from their right, which had prompted Eren to change direction accordingly. They made it to their destination through teamwork.

That alone was gratification for tagging along.

Eren locked up his bike, and then grabbed Armin's arm, shoving through a crowd of very tall people in order to push his way to the front. People had looked at them with puzzled expressions. Armin of course understood why. They were little kids, out at one in the morning to watch a drag race without any adult present. It was an honest concern.

"Where'd you hear about this place?" Armin had gasped, reaching the barrier between the racetrack and the onlookers, hanging close to Eren's side. Eren caught him by the hand, peeking over the barrier, and grinning broadly.

"Look!" he gasped, pointing across the Strip. "There's the Camaro! I heard that the driver's the fastest in the whole _world_!" He did not smile, despite the excitement in his voice. "He should be a really good driver."

Armin squeezed Eren's hand, but about to comment that he could not actually see the Camaro. He didn't actually know what a Camaro was like, and he was sad he wasn't tall enough to actually get a look.

"The whole world, huh?" A very tall teenager was suddenly towering over them, and Armin jumped. Warily, Eren pushed Armin a little behind him. "Now who told you that?"

"Just people," Eren sniffed. Armin glanced up at the teen, and saw a sharp face in the shadows, pale hair sticking out from beneath a beaten up baseball cap. "Anyways, even if he isn't, he's gotta be close, right?"

"Maybe," the teen said vacantly. He glanced down at them, and he tilted his head. "You two look very young. How old are you?"

"We're not supposed to talk to strangers," Armin blurted, anxious to get out of this situation. Eren glanced at him, looking irritated, but the teenager merely laughed, and nodded firmly.

"That's right," he said. "You're a good kid."

"You're a kid too," Armin had said vacantly. He turned to Eren, not wanting to speak with the man any longer. "I can't really see over here. Can we move?"

"Nah, this is as good a place as any," Eren said. He glanced at him, and shrugged. "Here, I'll give you a piggy back."

"For the whole thing?" Armin laughed incredulously. "Sure!"

"Yeah," he said, "why not? Come here."

He was hefted onto Eren's back and left to observe the race with his chin resting in Eren's soft brown hair. The race was fairly exciting, the start as breathtaking as the end, with the Camaro wedging its way through a the race with some effort and skill, passing the other car and skidding across the finish line with a great cloud of dirt coughed into the hazy, sweat-slick summer air.

Armin and Eren had been so bewildered and so enthralled that they stayed a little longer to catch a look at the driver.

"Hey," Eren said vacantly, "the guy who was talking to us earlier, he's talking to the driver now."

"Huh." Armin shrugged, and tugged at Eren's hand. "Well they might know each other."

"I wanna see the driver's face."

"Eren," Armin had warned. "We need to get home. My grandpa might know I left already!"

"Yeah, yeah…" Eren let himself be dragged back to his bike, and he smiled sheepishly in the dark. "Yeesh…"

* * *

><p>"What…?" Armin asked, his voice breaking ever so slightly. "Eren… come on. That's not really funny."<p>

Eren stared at him. He frowned. "I'm not joking," he said. "I'm a hundred and ten percent serious right now. I'm fucking dead."

Armin blinked rapidly. He was already on his knees, and he didn't think he'd be getting up any time soon. His legs had given out. He was helpless. He was confused.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, humor me. If you're dead, how can you possibly be here?"

Eren gave a sharp little laugh, and raised his chin high.

"Uh, I'm a ghost," he said, rolling his eyes. "_Duh_."

Duh.

"Was that supposed to be obvious?" Armin asked, his voice thick with his uncertainty and his grief. "Was I supposed to know that? Eren, you disappeared! You left! You were gone for years and years, and suddenly you reappear like it's fucking nothing, like we haven't been looking for you endlessly, like I wasn't scared to death of what might've happened to you! Where the hell have you _been_?"

Eren sat, turning his face away and kicking his legs idly over the edge of the cliff. He tilted his head back and looked toward the sky. Perhaps he was listening. Perhaps he wasn't.

"I've been here this whole time," he said, rocking backwards and forwards, tipping precariously over the ledge. "You were the one who left, not me."

"For college!" Armin clapped his hands angrily on his knees. "Because you were gone for seven years!"

Eren looked at him sharply. "What?" he blurted, lurching to his feet. Armin sat vacantly on the forest floor, teary eyed and weakened from overexertion. "I didn't know that. I didn't…." Eren ran his fingers through his dark hair, his eyes darting away from Armin's face. "Shit. _Shit_."

"How could you possibly not know that?" Armin squeaked, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Eren, talk to me!"

"I'm talking," Eren said, throwing his hands into the air. "I told you already, didn't I? I'm dead. Why aren't you listening? I thought you knew. I thought…" He groaned, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh man, this just got real fucked up. Seven years?"

"Seven years," Armin whispered. "Seven long years, and I… I don't know, Eren. I don't know how I even made it. Mikasa, I guess." He perked up, and he leapt to his feet. "Mikasa! Eren, Mikasa was with you that night, wasn't she?"

He glanced at him, and he nodded very slowly.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Armin moved closer, exhilarated and exhausted. "What were those books for, the ones you put on hold at Historia's antique shop? And what the hell did you want to show me?"

"Books?" Eren looked bewildered. "Armin, what are you even talking about? Who's Historia?"

Armin closed his eyes, and shook his head furiously. "Christa! Whatever!" He bit his lip, and he heard his name being called in the distance. He glanced behind him, and he shook his head some more.

"Sounds like your horsey friend caught up," Eren said, sounding a little bitter. "I hate that guy."

"You don't even know him," Armin argued. Then he paused, and he squinted at Eren. "Have you been watching me?"

Eren's eyes widened, and he looked a little sheepish as he laughed. "Well, a little," he admitted. Armin barked a disbelieving laugh. "You look mad. Come on, don't be mad…"

"What the fuck, Eren?" Armin breathed, tears swimming in his eyes. "I don't understand why you didn't approach me sooner. I don't understand anything!" He rubbed his cheeks furiously. "I don't understand, because you're not saying a damn thing except that you're dead! I don't want to hear it! Stop saying it!"

"But I_ am_ dead, Armin!" Eren snapped back. "Fuck, is that so hard to accept? If I've really been gone for seven years, don't you think I would have tried to come back? Fuck!" He stomped his foot against the gray rock he'd perched himself upon, but it made no sound. Armin stared. He wondered if he was delirious.

And then he remembered the old red ball from beneath his bed.

He took a deep breath.

"Eren, please," he murmured, closing his eyes. "Tell me you're alive, okay?"

"But I'm not, though…" Eren sounded so calm when he said it. It was so hard to listen to. "Listen. You have to get out of here."

His eyes snapped open. "Hell no," he snapped back, his hands balling into fists. "Are you kidding me? I only just found you!"

"Don't worry about that!" He grimaced, and he gritted his teeth. Armin watched as he seemed to flicker in the daylight. And that was the moment when Armin's heart seemed to stop, and the world seemed to fall out of sync. Eren's body had flickered out like a light, and reappeared just as angry as before, small, soft particles bouncing off his skin, light dispersing with every move he made.

"Don't worry about that!" Eren repeated furiously. "Just go, okay? I thought I told you not to go into the woods. And of course, you don't fuckin' listen because you're _you_, and you went into the woods!"

"Oh please," Armin scoffed, scowling at him. He ignored the fact that his body was flickering like a faulty television screen, that he did not seem to be corporeal, and he focused on the fact that he was here. He was here, and he was talking, and laughing, and yelling. Eren was here. He'd found him. Now how the hell was he going to report this? "Like you wouldn't do the same!"

"Not the point!"

"I'm not leaving until I get some answers," Armin declared stubbornly. Eren scowled. Armin scowled back.

"Fine," Eren snapped. "I'll just leave."

Armin's heart sank.

"No!" he gasped, stumbling forward. "No, don't—!"

Eren was grinning toothily, his green eyes twinkling in the sunlight. He looked real now. No flickering. No dust.

He laughed in Armin's face.

"Holy shit," Eren snorted, "chill. I can't leave the town, so if you really want to talk, you won't have trouble finding me. Just… not in the woods. Okay?"

"Okay…?" Armin sniffled, wiping away his stray tears. "I still don't really understand what's going on…"

"I died," Eren said flatly. "Does the rest really matter?"

"Armin!" Jean cried from somewhere close by. "_Armin_!"

He didn't even have the strength to turn to look where Jean might be.

"I've been searching for you," Armin said shakily, "for years and years. Of _course_ it matters!"

Eren stared at him, and he hiccupped. Not literally, but his image seemed to grow very faint all of a sudden, and Armin was growing to accept, with every passing moment, that Eren was telling the truth about being a ghost. His face seemed to blot in and out of reality, dark and opaque, light and transparent, blue and brown and blank and bold.

He averted his gaze. "I'll tell you everything I can," he said finally. "Just… not right now. Okay? Are you satisfied?"

"Not even remotely," Armin replied curtly.

"ARMIN!"

_Shit_, he thought, whirling away to face Jean as he came barreling through the trees. He looked frantic and distraught, breathless and pained, his face contorted and his eyes darting wildly. Armin grimaced, and he turned back to Eren to explain that Jean really was no threat to him, he saw with a strike of pure horror that Eren was gone.

He lurched forward, his knees wobbling as his feet skidded against the sun-bleached boulder, his eyes moving frantically to catch even a wisp of the boy who'd vanished, the boy who was still a boy even after all his years gone, the boy who was everything and nothing at all. But Armin saw not a trace, not a breath, not a wisp of Eren Jaeger, and he swayed on his feet, feeling as though he were about to start wailing from despair. How could Eren do that? How could he just leave?

Armin did not wail, but instead he tipped his head over the side of the cliff, moving farther and farther, his stomach clenching in terror at the sight of Titan's Maw, a vague green smudge at the bottom of the ravine. He felt himself tipping, but he didn't care, because a thought had struck him.

Had Eren jumped?

_I'm dead_, he'd said. _I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead_.

He hadn't seemed sad about it at all.

Had Eren jumped?

Could Eren be capable of such a thing, throwing his life away?

Armin was yanked back and thrown to the ground, dirt filling his mouth as he curled up in a ball and resisted the urge to sob.

"What," Jean panted, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger down at him, "the ever loving, motherfucking _hell_, Armin?"

He sniffled, and sat up. What was he supposed to tell Jean now?

"I just," he said faintly, glancing away, "wanted to see how long the drop was…"

"Well, did you fucking see it?" Jean was pissed. Beyond pissed, he looked ready to throw Armin over the side of the cliff himself.

He nodded fiercely. "No one could survive that fall," he said firmly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Thanks for pulling me back."

Jean eyed him warily. "No problem," he said. "Wanna fill me in on what's going on inside your fucked up little head?"

Armin shot him a shaky smile. "I think I'm honestly just sleep deprived," he admitted. "I haven't really slept… or eaten in awhile, and I've been… really pushing myself with this case. I'm sorry, Jean. I'm dragging you around all of creation, and I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm really sorry."

They were mostly truths, but forced truths besides. Armin was a pretty cheeky person, and he understood how Jean worked. An apology would get him everywhere.

"Oh man…" Jean muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "Now you're making me feel bad."

Armin stared at him, eying him sadly from beneath his sweaty fringe. He didn't really have a reply, because he knew what he was doing, and he knew it probably made Jean feel awful, and the worst part was that he did not care. He wanted Jean to feel awful. That way he'd leave Armin alone about his behavior and focus on how shitty he felt.

He pushed past Jean, throwing one last glance at the cliff, and feeling unnervingly empty as he trudged forward. He just kept walking. Eren's face drifted inside his head, and he kept walking in spite of it, in spite of the words and the uncertainties. Jean followed, but Armin ignored.

He felt like something was clogging his brain. The world around him was muted.

The world was muted, but he could feel the hurricane snarling all around him. The winds and the rain shifting the earth where he stood. If he stopped walking, he was certain he'd be blown away.

He missed Eren.

Where was Eren?

Where had he gone?

Had he even been real?

Get out of the forest. Get out of the forest. Get out of the forest.

And then everything would make perfect sense, right?

Right?

He was sick from the sound of his own voice spouting lies. He wondered if any of them saw through him, or if he was going to end up drowning in the waste he puked.

Oh well.

Jean took him home. Once they'd exited the woods, Jean had taken him by the arm and dragged him back to the garage. He told Mikasa he was sick, which might've been true, but Armin just didn't know. He didn't feel sick, but he also didn't feel right. He took a shower to wash the dirt and blood away, and his thoughts drifted to Eren, who was somewhere, who maybe was dead, who maybe was alive, who had spoken or not spoke, who was otherworldly either way.

Armin sat down on the shower floor, streams of hot water beating at his back, and he began to cry into his knees. He didn't know, he didn't know, he didn't _know_ and that was so hard for him! He was the boy with all the answers! He was the boy who could solve anything! Everyone had looked to _him_ when Eren had disappeared! What do you think happened, Armin? Is Eren dead, do you think? Armin? What do you think? Armin, what happened? Armin, what's going on? Armin? Armin? Armin? Why don't you know?

Armin?

"Armin."

He looked up, squinting through the haze and the steam, his hair dark and damp at his cheeks, and he saw Mikasa kneeling beside the tub, watching him with her dark eyes cloudy and her smile too small and too tight.

He felt embarrassed, and he hugged his knees to his chest, staring at her with wide eyes and a red face.

"W-what're you—?" he choked, as she turned off the faucet, and the roar of water, the endless din of the stream and the endless beat of heat dispersed in quick second. "Mikasa…"

She took his hands in hers, and he noticed at they were smudged black from grease. Even so, they looked to be in better shape than his raw, red fingers, his knuckles split open and skin cracked like porcelain. Rivulets of water gathered up the smears of oil and cleaned a trail of her skin as it descended toward the ground.

"Look at you," she whispered, her expression softening. "What a mess you've made of yourself."

"I…" he blinked rapidly. "I… um…"

She tossed a towel over his head.

"Chill," she said. "I'll leave you alone, but you know I pay for the hot water, right?"

"Shit," he murmured.

"It's fine." She stood up, wiping her hands off on her jeans. "I was just checking to make sure you're okay."

He held his knees awkwardly to cover himself, ashamed for reasons he could not explain, and he tilted his head at her. "Why wouldn't I be?" he asked her vacantly. His knuckles were angry and red. His body was frail and bony. She looked at him, and her eyes lingered on his protruding bones.

He felt ashamed.

"You weren't feeling well, right?"

"Oh!" He shook his head furiously, wrapping the towel around himself. "No, I… I mean, I wasn't, but I'm okay now. Honest."

"Good," she said, smiling genuinely now. "Because I know what will cheer you up. As long as you're up for going."

He perked up.

"Wait," he gasped, "are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

"Well, probably."

"Awesome!" Armin cried. "Wait, tonight?"

"Yes, Armin." She smiled at him, shaking her head slowly. "But only if you're up for it."

"Yeah," he said, blinking rapidly. "Of course I am!"

"Awesome," she said, giving a little laugh and turning away. "Sorry for bursting in on you."

"Nah, it's okay," he said sheepishly, adjusting his towel. "It was bound to happen eventually, and better me than Jean."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ah." He smiled at her. "Forget it."

She shot him a strange look, and left him promptly. He sat for a while after that, his towel sagging on his shoulders, and he examined his ruddy hands. He'd have to take better care of them. And stop scratching them. What an ugly sight.

He climbed out of the tub and dressed himself hastily, drying his hair with his towel as he exited the bathroom. His hair was drying in fluffy blonde ringlets around his ears, and he tried to flatten it down as he entered his room, but it was no use. He kicked the door closed and checked his phone, noting once more just how ugly the scratches on his hands were, and he reminded himself to go wrap them in bandages or something.

He sat down on his bed, frowning at his fingers, and he sighed. "Shit," he said, tossing his phone aside.

Suddenly he remembered that there was something under his bed.

He kicked his legs up, squeaking pitifully, and he glanced around frantically, the hairs on his arms standing on end. Weird shit was happening everywhere lately, but he just couldn't shake how eerie the ball under his bed was. He didn't even want to think about it.

And yet, he found himself hanging over the side of his bed, cautiously lowering himself so he could peek underneath it. It was totally dark, and so he saw nothing, but his heart was pounding viciously in his ears and his damp hair brushed the floor as he swayed.

Finally he gave up squinting at nothing, and he raised his head.

He was greeted by the amused face of his missing best friend.

"Boo," Eren laughed.

Armin shrieked in shock, and he toppled right off his bed, landing painfully on his shoulder and flipping half over his body. "Ow…" he moaned into the hardwood floor.

"Oh." Eren squatted beside him, looking sheepish. "Sorry. I honestly didn't think I was gonna scare you."

"Eren," Armin breathed, holding his aching head. "What the hell?"

"No hello?" Eren rolled his eyes. "Yeesh. Okay then. I see how it is."

"Eren!"

"Shh!" Eren shot him a sharp glance, and he flickered. A ripple ran through him, his skin sort of… peeling back… and he blinked away for just a moment before returning to looking like a normal boy. He didn't even seem to notice he'd left. "Do you want Mikasa to hear?"

"What?" Armin sat confusedly on the floor. "Do you not… do you not want Mikasa to see you, or something?"

Eren glanced up at the ceiling. "It's not that," he said softly. "I'd love to talk to her, it's just… I don't think I'm ready for that conversation. Anyway, have you been eating?"

Armin bristled. "Why?" he asked, curling defensively. His eyes widened. "Were you watching me?"

"Only a little!" Eren gasped, pinching the air with his thumb and forefinger. "And I mean, not for long, I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. After the forest thing. I'm really sorry about that."

"What's going on, Eren?" Armin asked as calmly as he could.

Eren smiled vacantly. "Oh," he laughed. "Right! Yeah, I told you I'd explain stuff, huh?"

"Are you really dead?" he asked cautiously.

"Uh, yeah?" Eren looked very confused. "You know that."

"You told me," Armin sighed, "but I'm having trouble believing it."

Eren glanced at him with sympathy, and he knelt down. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry you had to wait seven years to talk to me. I'm sorry I'm not what you expected or hoped for. And… I'm sorry I don't have answers."

Armin closed his eyes. He could barely contain his fury, but he managed it. It melted into somber disbelief.

"How?" he whispered. "How can you not have answers?"

"I just don't," Eren said. "I hate it, but I honestly am so lost most of the time, I can barely function."

"Lost." Armin shook his head. "What does that mean, Eren?"

"Ugh, I don't know!" Eren rolled his shoulders, and he sniffed. His appearance flickered. "I feel all distant and sleepy— like I'm stuck in a never ending dream of sorts, just in one place perpetually while the world goes by, and stuff." He looked down at his hands. "It wasn't so bad. I was kinda lucid sometimes— but I could never really leave the forest."

"And you can now?" Armin's eyes narrowed. "What's that about?"

"Hell if I know!" Eren scowled at the floor. They were both quiet for a little bit, and Armin watched him, watched his dark face and his bright eyes and his knitted brow, his fear and uncertainty spilling from him like hot, restless waves. Eren looked up, and he met Armin's eye. They watched each other. And Eren smiled. "I do know one thing."

Armin smiled back, hopeless to the urge. "Tell me," he said.

"I woke up," Eren said breathlessly. "I'm awake now. And I know it's because you're back."

"Because of me?" Armin laughed in disbelief. "Okay, enlighten me. How do you know that?"

"I just feel it," Eren said simply.

_That must be nice_, Armin thought sadly_. Feeling and knowing on instinct_. He said nothing, but Eren could sense his sadness.

"You're taking it so lightly," Armin murmured. "That you're… dead…"

"You're taking it pretty lightly too," he retorted, shrugging.

"Oh, no," Armin said, waving his hands hurriedly. "Actually, I'm freaking out pretty badly. I just don't see the point in outwardly showing it."

"You never change," Eren scoffed. "Always with that shit where you don't wanna bother anyone about your feelings. Like, give it a rest already."

"Eren," Armin said. "You're dead. Right? I don't have any right to—"

"Bull."

"But—"

"Bullshit."

"_Eren_," Armin sighed, exasperated.

"Armin!" Eren whined. "So what's new, anyway? What have I missed in seven years?"

"Eren, I still don't understand what's going on," Armin said slowly. "One thing at a time."

"Well you're not gonna figure it out just this second, sitting on your ass in Creepy Ackerman's old room, are you?" Eren folded his arms across his chest. "No! So c'mon. Details! Did anyone hook up? Come out? Are Ymir and Christa still not digging the intimacy thing?"

"Um," Armin said, glancing up at the ceiling. "Yes, yes, and yes. Connie and Sasha briefly dated, but they're back to just being friends I think. Unless I'm wrong. Reiner's bi now."

"He was always bi," Eren scoffed. "Actually, I thought he was gay for sure, but bi makes sense too, I get it."

"Bertholdt is bi," Armin said, counting on his fingers, "I'm pretty sure Annie and Miaksa are bi…"

"Whoa, really?" Eren tilted his head. "Annie, huh?"

"Pretty sure."

"Mikasa's um," Eren said, snapping his fingers, though no sound came from it, "what's it called? Demisexual?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Armin was appalled that he did not know this about his best friend. "Did she tell you that?"

"I googled it for her because she didn't want to." Eren shrugged. "I don't know why. It's really hard to read Mikasa, so I don't pry real hard, and I just go with it."

"Noted," Armin said, though he was certain he already knew how to deal with Mikasa's personality on his own terms. As he was sure she had her own methods of dealing with him. "Also, Ymir and Christa are still… whatever they are, not explicitly dating but also pretty much dating. You know how they are."

"Yeah, I don't actually care that much about their personal lives," Eren laughed, "I was just fucking with you."

Armin sighed, closing his eyes. "Eren," he said, "that's not nice."

"I just mean that it's their business," he said vacantly. "Chill out, Armin."

"Chill yourself," Armin retorted, shoving him lightly in the shoulder. He shrieked in alarm as his fingers passed right through Eren's skin and through the bone of his shoulder, a shock of numbness spiking up along his nerves, an icy sensation colliding with the pores of his skin and electrifying his senses. And in his eyes a sliver of light blasted through him, the chill and the pain and the fear and the uncertainty, the crash and the cold. "Shit!"

Eren flickered. Eren was so close. Armin's hand was stuck inside his shoulder, swishing idly in the cold air that Eren occupied, as though he were nothing, as though he were not there. Eren smiled. Eren flickered. Eren's skin was pasty and wet. Eren's skin was warm and brown. Eren's eyes were bold and bright.

Eren's eyes were gauzy and dull.

He disappeared, and Armin's hand hung limply in the air, the room so frigid from Eren's mere presence that Armin exhaled and saw his breath mist. His hand drooped sadly, and his throat constricted painfully. His eyes began to sting and water.

For just a little while… for just a tiny, blissful little while, Armin had forgotten.

_Am I losing my mind?_

He sat on his floor and puzzled over this thought for an hour.

He began to cross-reference the identical books on the Wall Cult to pass the time and get his mind off Eren, the ghost boy, and he realized something quickly.

The Wall Cult primarily worshipped three goddesses. Maria, Rose, and Sina.

Armin had read the parables. He knew the gist of it.

The reason behind the founding of the religion was a little shoddy, and Armin didn't know the details in particular, but it had something to do with the power the three sisters of those names had possessed in a time gone past, and now they had something that could be _considered_ a following, if you squinted. The credibility of the religion was something he had to question as he continued his reading, understanding that there were separate accounts of the sisters' teachings, which dealt with, among other things, good will, sacrifice, nature, and the immortal souls of all living things. Sounded nice in theory. But so did communism.

He'd have to look into whether or not this was an actual religion before he started scrutinizing the text he was reading.

A knock at his door jolted him out of his reverie, and he twisted around, books and notebooks and his laptop all around him in a circle of disorganized research. Jean had opened the door, and he was peering down at Armin quizzically, his fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. He looked actually half presentable, his hair combed back instead of left to the wind to style, and he actually put the earring in that he'd gotten in their second year.

"Hey," Jean said cautiously, leaning against the door. "Have you seen my lighter?"

Armin sighed. He was used to this question. "Did you check under your bed?" he asked, thinking of the most logical place it could end up being. Often Jean knocked his lighter off his nightstand in his sleep, and it fell beneath his bed.

"Yeah, it's not there," he said, shrugging. "Maybe I dropped it in the woods?"

"Yeah, maybe…" _Don't go into the woods_, a voice hissed inside his head. He sat on the ground vacantly.

"So are you still coming?" Jean eyed him uncertainly, and Armin looked down to see he was still in his sweatpants and a thin cotton tee shirt. "Or are you still feeling crummy?"

"No, I'm okay now," he said, pushing away his computer and the books, blowing his fluffy hair from his eyes. He missed Eren. He wondered where his friend had gone.

"That's good!" Jean beamed at him. "So do you want to talk about what happened in the forest now?"

"Oh." Armin had not thought of an excuse yet. Perhaps he'd been meaning to tell the truth. "I thought I saw Eren. I made a mistake."

Jean stared at him blankly, and his eyes narrowed. "You thought you saw Eren," he echoed, "for real?"

"It was a mistake," Armin said. "I was wrong."

"Well why didn't you say that before?" Jean asked, frowning at him. "You were acting so weird, man, like you were possessed, or something."

Possessed? Now wasn't that a frightening thought.

"I think I'd know if I was possessed," Armin laughed uneasily.

Jean nodded, and he checked his phone. "Yeah, so you're coming, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." Jean turned away and waved at him. "Get dressed, then, asshole. Oh, and tell me if you find my lighter."

"Did you check up your ass?" Armin called after him.

"Not yet!" Jean snapped back from the hall, not missing a beat. "But if I shit a fucking fireball, you'll know!"

"God…" Armin shook his head, shutting his door. He glanced at the painting of Isaac, and he scowled at it. He needed to find something to cover that shit up.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose periwinkle cardigan over a tee shirt. He grabbed his wallet and phone, stuffing them into his pockets as he left his room. He glanced back, expecting Eren to be standing there in the dark, but he wasn't. The room was just a dark space, the closet door left open and a box half spilled on the floor. Armin left without another thought.

"Hey," he said to Mikasa, entering the living room. She was sewing up a hole in her gloves. "Do you think there's any chance of a break up tonight?"

"No," she said, never parting her focus from her gloves. "We'll always be at the Strip, but the Strip is huge, so pinpointing where exactly we are is never something the police can actually do. Plus, Annie will be there. She knows better than to get caught."

"I'm so jacked for this," Jean said, grinning at them. "I haven't been to a race since I was in high school. Oh, Marco's coming by the way."

"All of our friends will probably show up," Mikasa said, "so that's fine."

Almost all of them.

Armin glanced down the hall. Again, he expected Eren to simply be standing there, watching them. He was so pathetic.

"Be careful what you drink," Armin warned Jean.

Jean smiled at him as if Armin were a child, his arrogance showing through. "Armin," he said, rolling his eyes, "I've been to this thing before. I know how to take care of myself."

Armin bit back a firm retort that he was going to get so fucking trashed that Mikasa would have to carry him home, but he didn't. He merely gave Jean a long look until Jean's smile fell, and he shifted uncomfortably. Mikasa finished sewing up her gloves, and she nodded at them.

"Armin," she said, "go grab something to eat."

Armin opened his mouth to object, but he saw the look in her eyes, and he bit his tongue promptly. He smiled at her, but he felt stupid and shameful, and he nodded. "Sure," he said. He left them to go find something he could eat on the go. Luckily for him, Mikasa kept breakfast bars ready to go.

He bent down, prying open the cupboard and snatching a box of granola bars. As he slipped a bar from the box, something fell from the open cabinet, colliding with the floor and dribbling softly as it rolled to his feet. Armin stared at the faded red ball, and he wondered why any child would want to play with such an ugly thing. He picked it up, and he weighed it in his palm. It was heavy.

When he looked up, there was a tiny face half emerged from the cupboard, tiny fingers outstretched toward him. The face was pallid, starved of sunlight and hollow from malnutrition. In the shadows, the face had no eyes, only deep black pits. The air in the room had gone cold and sour, like sweat settled into fabric, and Armin could not breathe. He stared at the thing— the _child_ sitting in the cupboard, huddled in the dark— and it stared back with its empty eyes and yellowed skin.

It withdrew, its bony hand wilting in the air.

Its skinny wrist was inflamed, unsettlingly red and angry as though it had been burned or chafed for an inordinate period of time.

Armin dropped the ball, his heart leaping into his throat, and he could not even scream because he was so terrified of the thing before him.

The ball did not collide with the floor, and unbidden, Armin's eyes darted down. It was gone. It had completely vanished. And when Armin looked up at the child's wan little face again, he saw the cupboard was empty and dark.

Terrified, Armin slammed the cupboard shut and bolted from the room.

Jean and Mikasa glanced at him as he ran in, breathless and teary eyed, his heart thundering inside his chest. From the kitchen, The Captain began to bark. Armin didn't dare look behind him.

"Angry?" Jean asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Armin flushed, but he couldn't speak. So he shook his head. Mikasa watched him with a furrowed brow, and he sensed her worry.

Eren was a ghost. And he wasn't the only one. There was something in this apartment, and he could feel it watching him.

He was in shambles. Had that been real?

"Let's go," he said eagerly, desperate to leave. The Captain had come into the room. He was growling at Armin's back.

They left. And Armin had never been so relieved to leave anywhere in his entire life.

"You okay?" Mikasa asked him. She was glancing at him, not keeping her eyes on the road. He nodded quickly. "You look really pale."

"I'm fine," he lied easily.

"You haven't eaten."

Armin glanced down at his granola bar, but in truth he thought he'd puke if he had to eat it. His stomach was in a knot from the encounter he just had. He didn't know how to explain it. He didn't know what to say to Mikasa and Jean to make them believe him.

"Do you guys believe in ghosts?" he blurted.

Mikasa eyed him warily, and she did not answer. Jean replied with a vague, "Yeah."

"Okay," he said. "Cool."

What else was he supposed to say?

"What's this about, Armin?" she asked him.

"Nothing, just curious."

Liar.

Liar.

That's all you are.

A liar.

A liar.

Armin tore open the granola bar and consumed it with the kind of mechanic proficiency of a well-oiled tin man.

"Hey, is this part of the Strip still considered Shiganshina?" Armin asked as they pulled up to the illegal street racing track, which was already packed with various people, teenagers and drunkards and stoners alike.

"Yeah," Mikasa said. "The border between it and Trost is about a mile north of here."

_So maybe Eren could show up_, Armin thought hopefully. Then Armin could ask about the ghost child in Mikasa's apartment.

They exited Mikasa's car as she turned around to pull up to the makeshift track. She'd done races in Trost before, and in Shiganshina, but most races were held on the Strip. Jean stuck close to Armin for awhile, keeping him at a close distance if only to make sure he was okay.

"You can tell me if you're stoned," Jean said.

"I am not stoned," Armin informed him.

"That sounds like something a stoned person would say."

"You'd know," Armin retorted.

"True."

And then Jean found the makeshift bar, so Armin was left to stand awkwardly among the shifting bodies, dizzy from the marijuana fumes and sick from the scent of beer. Both things he really disliked, but everyone else in the world seemed to adore.

These things were always basically keggers until the race began. There was music thrumming in his ears, music so loud that the police should've been right on top of them, but their remote location gave them the advantage. Armin observed who was underage, and who was not. The alcohol laws were not especially strict, but Armin remembered the first time he'd been handed a little red cup of vodka diluted with lemonade, and that had been when he'd been about twelve. Eren had told him the next morning that he'd made a guy cry, though he wouldn't tell him the details.

Armin was not a nice person when he was drunk.

He found Sasha and Connie, and he was endlessly glad for their company, but they were already roaring drunk. He asked if they had a designated driver, and they pointed.

That was how Armin came to stand beside Ymir for the remainder of the night.

"You look like a used up baby blue oil pastel," she greeted him. She pulled her phone out and took a selfie with him anyway.

"Nice to see you to," he told her. "Glad to know I won't be the only sober one tonight."

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," she said, glancing at her fingers and picking at her black nail polish. "I came here with Christa, but she's already downed half her weight in alcohol, so I left her to the trio of dubious intent. We'll see if they make it out of here alive."

"You're terrible," Armin said, smiling dimly. The thing about alcohol and Historia Reiss? It did not affect her.

At all. Like, honestly, hardly even a little bit.

The only thing it did was make her drop the angelic act, which was jarring for some, but for Armin and Ymir, they understood it was perfectly natural.

By some extent, Historia was a meaner "drunk" than even Armin.

Which was saying a lot.

"You know," he said, "you _act_ like you're such an enormous bitch, but you're probably the most moral out of all of us."

"I'd bleed you dry in a second if I thought your wallet had cash in it," she told him curtly.

"Here." Armin tossed it at her, and she caught it between two fingers. She stared at him vacantly. "There's like twenty five Euros. Go wild."

"You're fucking with me."

"I'm wondering what you'd invest my twenty five Euros in." Armin tilted his head. "You should buy a new hijab."

She tossed his wallet back at him. "I don't need your money, you creepy little dweeb."

"Like I said," he said, "you're nicer than you act."

"I could skull drag you from here to the Alps." She folded her arms across her chest. "You think I'm nice? I think you're pathetic."

"Warranted," he replied, glancing around the crowd and spotting Annie drinking beer with Historia. He waved at her, and she waved back. Their version of cordial interaction. Maybe they'd even exchange a greeting later, if Annie wasn't smashed.

"You don't even defend yourself," Ymir sneered. "Talk about spineless."

"Are you going to spend the whole night trying to prove me wrong?" Armin glanced up at her. He could see her freckles against her dark face, the lights from the dirt track gleaming over the crowd. "Good luck with that."

"You know," she said, "for someone so insignificant, you're a real egotistical ass."

"Egotistical?" His eyebrows raised in alarm. "That's actually a new one. But it fits. Continue. What else is wrong with me?"

Ymir took a deep breath. She was clearly furious that she could not get at him, and honestly, he didn't blame her. He was pretty good at acting. Just as good as her maybe. He knew how to hide how shitty he felt about himself.

The crowd began to roar, and Armin realized the race was about to start. He'd wanted to talk with Reiner and Bertholdt, considering he still had not seen them, but it was too late for that now. He could see Mikasa's Camaro at the starting line, and he pushed his way eagerly to the barrier between where the onlookers stood and the dirt road. Ymir followed him silently.

"Got any money on this one?" Ymir asked.

"No, not tonight," he replied. "I think Jean did, though."

"Who's Jean?" she asked with a snort.

"Oh." Armin had forgotten. Not everyone knew him. "My roommate. He came here with me."

"Are you two hooked up, or…?"

Armin couldn't help the grimace that appeared on his face at the thought. "No," he said. "It's not like that at all, but your interest in my personal life is much appreciated."

"Chill, I was just asking."

Armin watched the referee raise his arms. Everyone was quiet. And then, he dropped them, and the din reached a pitch that throttled his eardrums, and the sound of the cars revving matched even that. The cars took off, which was certainly exciting, but Armin had seen this a few dozen times before, and it had lost its charm. He didn't know what it is. Maybe growing up had left him bitter and empty of joy. He hated himself for being such a downer.

"I heard you were on the hunt for Eren," Ymir said, watching the race with only vague interest. Armin watched Mikasa nose ahead, her car spitting dust while the other fell a little behind. "How's that working out for you?"

_Terrible_, he thought. "Okay," he said. "I'm still trying to piece everything together."

"Yeah, that kid's a goner for sure."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Well, she wasn't wrong.

The race continued, and Armin checked his phone. It was nearing one in the morning. He wondered what Eren was doing. Where he'd gone off to. How he'd… died. Why he wouldn't tell him. Why he couldn't remember, if that was the case. It was all so strange, and Armin's logic was still morphing to fit the situation. Not to mention the other ghost, which he did not want to think about.

How was he supposed to sleep tonight?

He watched eagerly as Mikasa accelerated, surpassing her opponent and moving at an incredible speed, curving a sharp turn with a flourish of control, and finally gaining the upper hand needed to finish the race without a hitch. Armin smiled. This was the part he always loved. Watching Mikasa cross the finish line and deliver the show. She was so good at it, too. She knew how to make the moment.

Mikasa's car screeched as she slammed on her breaks, loosing all of her control in a swift swivel of the wheels, and Armin watched in horror as the Camaro flipped. And flipped. It rolled across the dirt. The sound of bending metal and shattering glass sang in the air, and the heat of the crash wafted toward them. Armin and Ymir stood side by side, their faces echoing the immense shock of watching Mikasa's car get unimaginably wrecked.

Armin hopped the barrier once his shock subsided, calling out Mikasa's name in feverish horror. Eren was gone already. He couldn't lose Mikasa too.

He tugged on the door, but it would not open. He squinted at her through the cracked window, and saw her slumped at the wheel. He wound the sleeve of his cardigan around his fist, and brought it down on the window with as much strength as his scrawny arm could muster. It didn't shatter, but the glass cracked some more, leaving it spiderwebbed and ugly. Armin took a deep breath, and he decided to use his elbow to deliver the final blow. The glass shattered, and he stumbled back as a shard brushed past his ear. He touched it gingerly, and his finger came back wet and slick with blood.

He knocked out the remnants of the glass, and he unlocked the door, tearing it open. Mikasa's helmet was resting in her lap. Her hair was gathered around her face. She looked dead. She looked dead. She looked—

She stirred, and groaned.

Armin let out the breath he'd been holding, and he shook his head, quickly unbuckling her seatbelt. She slumped forward further, and he found himself clambering into the compacted car pulling at her from beneath her arms. His feet slipped a bit. He realized why as the scent of gasoline hit his nose, burning his nostrils and forcing him to glance down. There was a puddle of gasoline gathering beneath the car.

"Shit," he breathed, yanking at Mikasa and shifting her body so she was no longer pinned beneath the steering wheel. Unfortunately, Mikasa weighed a lot more than him, and he was pretty weak to begin with. He adjusted his grip so his arms were around her stomach, and he half pulled her from the car. His eyes fell on the rearview mirror.

Standing near the hind-wheel, a tiny boy stood watching. Armin could not see his face, only that he was pale and tiny and barefoot. He stood there, simply watching. And Armin wondered if he'd been the reason Mikasa had crashed.

_He followed me_, Armin realized, sickened at the thought_. I let him out of the cupboard, and he followed me here!_

Armin watched the child through the mirror. The boy held something in his bony fist. He struck it with his thumb. A flame burst into life at his fingertips.

He hauled Mikasa out of the car, crashing onto the ground and heaving her body away from the gasoline as the boy dropped the lighter.

_Please, please, please_, he thought, still dragging Mikasa as far as he could, heat flaring up before him and around him. He kept at it, his skin peeling and his tears blotting out his vision. And still he pulled her, gripping her so tightly he thought he might've broken one of her ribs from the pressure.

He felt someone grab him by the neck of his sweater and yank him very hard. He rolled across the dirt, coughing and gasping in light of the smoke and the spitting flame, and he gripped Mikasa tighter, burying his face in her back. _Don't take her away from me_, _please_, he thought. _Please, please, please_. She smelled like blood and sweat and smoke.

"You're fucking crazy!" Jean shouted at him. "Shit! Shit—!" He clapped his hands over his head in disbelief. "Someone put out that fucking fire before that shit blows up!"

"On it!" Sasha cried.

"God damn it!" Jean glanced down at them. Armin huddled against Mikasa's body, clinging to her for dear life. He'd nearly lost her. How could that have happened? How could he have almost let that happen? "You okay?"

He shook his head miserably. No, he wasn't. He really wasn't. "Mikasa," he mumbled, sitting upright. He shook her shoulder. "Mikasa, wake up."

She groaned. There was blood on her face and in her hair. Dirt was smeared all over her clothes. She opened her eyes, and stared dazedly into Armin's face. Her hair was clinging to her sweaty forehead, curling across her cheeks, and swaying as she moved. She turned her head aside vacantly, her lips trembling as her face contorted in pain and confusion.

"Eren?" she whispered shakily. Her eyes darted around in horror. "Eren…"

She curled up against Armin, burying her face into his cardigan, and she began to sob.


	7. Chapter 7

**learning to fear men**

Armin had taken to trying to figure out which notes Eren had gotten wrong. He knew because he'd more or less gotten the concept of piano playing down, and he could read the music fine, but applying it was a nightmare. Eren was just the opposite. He was a maestro of sorts when it came to making music on a whim, but ask him to read sheet music and he butchered even the simplest of scales.

Not to say he didn't try, because he did. Very hard. But the way Armin figured it, Eren's brain was just not wired to be patient enough to read the music and then immediately act upon it. All he wanted was to act without reading. So he skipped notes. Made up his own. Did things in such a frantic and unconventional way that the song no longer even resembled what it was supposed to be. Needless to say, his teacher was pretty tough on him.

"I bet," Eren had grumbled, slamming his hands on the keys so the screeching noise they made was like a cat toppling down a flight of stairs. "I bet if I quit, then I'd be allowed to play whatever I wanted."

"Do your scales, Eren," Armin reminded, sitting on the floor beside the piano and patiently waiting for his friend to be done practicing. It was a nice day out, but he didn't mind being in doors. Eren's playing was so nice, and so pretty, that Armin would much rather sit inside and listen.

"I _hate_ the scales," he whined, leaning back at his little wooden bench. "My fingers get all tangled up!"

"You need to learn them if you want to get better at piano," Armin said.

"I'm already as good as I'm gonna get, though." Eren scratched his head. He hadn't meant it arrogantly, or self-deprecatingly, he'd only meant that he was comfortable with where he was in terms of talent, and he wasn't going to push himself at something he didn't want to get better at.

"I'm sure someday," Armin had insisted, "you'll look back and be super thankful that you took piano lessons. Just wait!"

"Well someday isn't _right now_," Eren moaned, prodding at middle C in a sharp succession of notes. "I wanna go outside and play with chalk. Let's go do that."

"You have to practice, Eren."

"I'm done practicing!" Eren leapt off his bench and marched across the room. Armin squeaked and hurried after him. "I just want to play outside. Piano gets in the way of fun."

"But piano _is _fun," Armin said gently. "Remember? You love it."

"I love it when I can do it when I want and how I want." Eren paused, and he glanced back at it. "Ugh. Crap. Now I feel guilty. Thanks."

"I didn't say anything!"

Eren grinned at him, and he shoved him playfully. "Calm down," he laughed, wandering back to his bench. "I'm just teasing you. Anyway, wanna hear a song I made up?"

"Yes," Armin said eagerly.

"Awesome," Eren said. He patted the spot beside him on the bench, and Armin sat uncertainly, watching as his fingers folded over the keys and he began to play a song by ear. It was a strangely fast paced, but somber song, the kind that reminded Armin of the jazz age. He watched Eren play, his fingers working from middle C up the scale and music colliding with the air, piano strings vibrating and humming along with his frantic movements. Eren didn't know what he was doing, but it didn't matter, because it was beautiful.

Every note was proof of how talented Eren really was. He didn't do sheet music. He just played, because he could, because he liked it, because it made him happy. Armin watched the fast strikes of his fingers across the ivory keys, darting upward to smash ebonies and then flickering back and forth in a hasty movement, and he almost looked like he was doing this intentionally. Maybe he was. Maybe he'd memorized this song of his.

Eren stopped, and he sat back.

"That's it," he said.

Armin was stunned. He sat, his mouth hung open, disbelief crawling over his features. "It's not finished," he'd said.

"No," Eren said, blinking. "I know. I'm still figuring it out. It changes a lot."

"It was awesome," Armin gasped. "Eren, have you shown that to your piano teacher?"

"It's not what I'm supposed to be doing," Eren said with a shrug. "So no. Hey, do you want to play too? Come on, let's make it a duet!"

"Uh…" Armin said nervously as Eren nudged him, pointing to a higher C key. He placed his fingers there, his thumbs over the C.

"No, no," Eren said, "you're holding your hands wrong. You can't have your fingers flat like that, they'll never move anywhere. They've gotta be curved like this." Eren demonstrated. "Like a spider!"

"Eek!" Armin winced.

"Okay, maybe not a spider, uh…" He drummed his fingers lightly against the keys. "Like when you're catching a ball! You don't want your hand to be flat like this." He banged his fingers against the keys, keeping each of them long and straight. "You want to curl your fingers so the ball stays in your hand!"

"Okay…" Armin curled his fingers. "What's the point of this?"

"I don't know," Eren said simply. "Okay, now try to follow my lead."

"I'm not very—" Armin began.

"Okay, go!"

Armin had immediately fallen behind in Eren's frantic piano playing, but in they end both of them were smashing keys and laughing at how horrible they sounded.

* * *

><p>It was a long night in the hospital. He begged and begged and begged for them to let him into Mikasa's room, and finally near dawn, they did. Jean was home, probably asleep but responsible for collecting some of Mikasa's things, and she was asleep in her hospital bed. He felt like weeping, but he had no tears or emotions left in him. He sat in the seat beside her bed and observed her face. There was a long, narrow cut on her cheekbone that had been stitched shut, and a few small lacerations along her nose and chin and jaw. Purplish bruises stained her once flawless face, and Armin was reminded of years past, anxious for her to awaken so they could talk it out.<p>

There were a lot of things Armin hated about hospitals. The smells, the anxiety, the downtrodden ambience and sense of solemnity that could be found in places like graveyards and funerals. He simply had no taste for staying in a place like this, and yet here he was. He'd never leave Mikasa alone, so this was where he'd stay.

The doctor said that Mikasa got off lucky considering the wreck, which had been salvaged and taken back to Mikasa's garage. She had a broken rib, a fractured wrist, and a concussion. Those were the extremities. The rest was just trauma, and Armin understood that well. What had Mikasa seen to make her brake? Had it been Eren? Had Eren materialized to her, only to make her crash her car? What the hell was with that?

No, Eren wouldn't do that.

But the ghost boy would.

The ghost boy who had tried to light him and Mikasa on fire.

The ghost boy living under Armin's bed.

Armin had to do something about that kid. Would an exorcism be too excessive? No, he couldn't do that with Eren lurking around, that'd be a disaster. Maybe he'd try something else. A paranormal investigator to just confirm that he was not losing his mind to this monster.

Mikasa stirred as the morning light splashed through her window, hitting her face. She squinted at it, and she groaned. When she covered her face with her hands, she saw the IV drip, and she saw the bandages, and she froze in horror.

"Morning, sleepy head," Armin said, relief spreading through him and warming him like a hearth. Mikasa's eyes darted to him, and she dropped her hands.

"Armin," she croaked. Her eyes darted around frantically, before she resigned to her position as a patient in a hospital. "What… what…?"

"You got into an accident," he told her cautiously. "Do you remember at all? The car flipped. A few times."

"What the fuck…?" She sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "Ow… did I finish the race, at least?"

"Mikasa!" Armin chastised her, shooting her an angry look.

"Whatever," she said, staring up at the ceiling. "As long as the race stopped, and no one beat me, I should be okay."

"Mikasa!"

"I need the money, Armin," she said honestly, glancing at him. "If I don't have enough to pay the bills, Kenny will move back in."

Oh.

That was understandably disconcerting.

"I'll get a job," Armin piped up, suddenly eager and ready to please her. "It's the least I can do!"

"Armin, no."

"I'm an adult," he told her firmly. "I'm almost out of school, and I'm unemployed, so you have no right to tell me I cannot get a job. Also I've been mooching off you for way too long."

"I don't think it's mooching," Mikasa whispered. "I want you here."

"Then let me help pay for the apartment," he said, taking her hand. Both his and hers were bandaged tightly. What a mess they were. He wished Eren were there too. A dead boy, and a broken girl, and a boy without a clue.

"At least I'm not dead, I guess…" Mikasa mumbled, squeezing his fingers. "That's always a plus."

"Don't even joke," he laughed quietly, bitterly into his hand. "Don't ever joke about dying, okay? You can't die on me."

"I won't."

"Promise."

"I won't die," she told him, smiling wanly. "Not when you still need me."

"Not ever."

"Now that's unrealistic."

"I'm sick of realism," he said sharply. "I'm sick of death and being sad. I just want you to stay alive for as long as humanly possible, and be happy."

She smiled wider at him. "I love you," she said, sounding happier than he'd heard her in weeks.

"I love you too," he replied, swinging her hand idly. He imagined Eren's ghostly fingers around his other hand. Then they'd be whole again.

Jean showed up with coffee, which was much appreciated, and he explained to Mikasa that everyone had gotten away before the cops had shown up to Mikasa's car, which had been left on the Strip. He'd told the police that they'd been going to Trost in separate cars when she'd crashed, swerving to miss a small animal. They'd bought it. Especially considering Annie was there to testify to that lie.

"At least I didn't fuck up too badly," Mikasa said, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.

"Besides almost dying?" Jean watched her with wide eyes. "The car almost blew up!"

"Really?" She tilted her head, her hair falling limply across her cheeks. "Damn."

"How are you so calm about it?" Jean asked, looking unnerved. "Christ!"

"Because I'm okay," Mikasa said, "and I don't need anyone to worry about me."

"That shit was scary, Mikasa."

"I'm fine," she insisted.

Jean scowled. And then he glanced at Armin, and looked a little remorseful. "You should go home," he told him. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"What?" Armin shook his head furiously. "Wait, no way!"

"Armin," Mikasa warned. He glanced at her, and saw her face. She looked dangerous and scolding, which was scary enough when she wasn't all banged up. She looked fearsome now. He grimaced, and faltered.

"I want to stay here with you," he insisted.

"You don't need to," she sighed. "I'm okay, and you need rest."

_I'm scared to go home_, he wished he could tell her. Instead he nodded vacantly, bunching his cardigan anxiously in his bandaged hands.

He walked, taking his time to gather his thoughts and bearings, and finish his coffee off. The hospital was farther from Mikasa's apartment than, say, the police station, but Shiganshina was still small enough that it didn't take him more than forty minutes. He unlocked the door, wary of his surroundings, and entered the apartment. Firstly, he made sure to feed The Captain, scratching behind the tiny dog's ears as he came running for his breakfast. Secondly, Armin decided to pass out on the couch.

He was exhausted.

He'd never been so exhausted in his entire life.

He felt as though he was being pinned down, and darkness hung over his head, darkness and shadows and a glint of a knife.

He had no will to scream anymore.

Armin woke up breathless, a heavy weight on his chest that crept from his lungs to his throat, and he thought he might begin to cry if he did not move immediately. As he sat up, he came face to face with a flickering boy who was standing silently at the arm of the couch, his green eyes shadowed and his hair sticking to his face. Armin swallowed hard as Eren's form blotted in and out of existence, and he was suddenly hovering at Armin's side, beaming at him.

"You're awake!" he gasped, looking far too pleased for what he had just looked like a second before, standing at Armin's feet as he slept, watching him with a dark gaze and a shaky appearance. "Where have you been? I've been here for hours, but the only one that was here was dumb Horse Face! Does he live with you guys, or something?"

"Yes," Armin mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Eren made a derisive little choking noise, throwing his had back and laughing.

"What a joke," he said. "That guy's a total asshole. He's so full of himself!"

"You don't even know him, Eren."

"I've heard him," Eren sniffed. "He's a total first class narcissist. How can you even deal with that? Like, what a pretentious asshole. Who does he think he is, complaining about the under appreciated Disney movies? Armin, he doesn't like Hunchback."

"As someone who has actually read _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_," Armin said carefully, "I understand Jean's disdain."

"Okay, let's just ignore the book for a sec!" Eren waved his hands furiously. "The movie! Recognition of racial and religious prejudices! A badass soundtrack!"

"Singing gargoyles," Armin pointed out.

"Hey, I did not say it was without flaw." Eren scowled. "Talk him out of it. Make him take it back."

"Okay," Armin said, though he was certain that was an impossible feat. "Would you like me to change his mind about Pocahontas too?"

"Nah, Disney kinda fucked up with that one."

"Kinda." Armin stretched his arms above his head. "Hey, aren't you dead?"

"Hey!" Eren grinned at him broadly. "You remembered this time!"

"Oh man," Armin groaned. "Don't be so cheerful about it. There's kinda a reason why I didn't want to believe you."

"_Kinda_," Eren scoffed, mimicking Armin's voice. Armin scowled at him until Eren smiled sheepishly. "Aw, lighten up."

"Eren," Armin sighed. "Mikasa's in the hospital."

Eren's face fell so fast, Armin swore his skin flitted out of existence, leaving his skull bare for Armin to see for a fraction of a second, a terrible image that burned into Armin's mind. His image flickered subtly, and then rapidly as it sunk in, and Eren disappeared altogether in a blinking snap of motion. Armin sunk into the couch, feeling a little uncertain and scared.

"What do you mean…" Eren's voice curled like smoke inside Armin's ear. "She's in the hospital?"

Armin twisted around in his seat, staring wide eyed into Eren's face. He was very close, his nose only millimeters away, his skin sickeningly pale and flecked with dirt and grime and something dark, something… wet, wetter than the beads of water slipping from his damp hair. Armin's breath caught in his throat. Eren flickered again as his rage dissipated with every moment he stood staring into Armin's terrified eyes.

"I'm sorry," Eren said earnestly. "Do I look bad?"

"No," Armin blurted, flushing in horror of the thought of letting Eren know how scary he really was. "No, no, no, that's not it!"

Eren stared at him vacantly. "You don't have to lie," he said. "I know. It takes a lot of energy to keep up this appearance." He gestured to himself, and he smiled wanly. "The real me isn't someone you want to have long conversations with. I know that much, at least."

"The real you?" Armin asked curiously, sitting on his knees and peering closer at Eren's dark face. It fluctuated between deathly pale and golden brown, cadaverous and radiating health, a visual dissonance that burned Armin's bleary eyes. "So you don't actually look like this. The real you is the one that looks like a corpse."

"Well technically…" Eren joked, a weak grin folding on his lips. Armin watched him, and he ached to touch him, to prove that this was all a lie, that his skin was warm and brown and healthy, that his blood was still pumping and the vein below his ear was still pulsing. Armin's fingers twitched, but the bandages on his fingers kept him from scratching them.

"How did you die, Eren?" Armin asked.

Eren stared at him.

"Oh," he said. He looked down. And then up. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Armin couldn't help but sound irritated.

"I don't remember."

"It's kind of important!" Armin's voice cracked miserably. "How could you forget?"

"It was a hectic night, okay?" Eren shuffled awkwardly, looking annoyed and frustrated. "I don't remember a lot of it. The stuff I do remember, I don't want to. Just leave it."

"No!" Armin leapt to his feet. "No way! You say you're dead, that you died, but you won't tell me how!"

Eren shook his head. "I don't know," he insisted, raising his eyes to Armin's and staring into them, a plea buried deep within his gaze, a plea to stop, a plea to understand. But Armin didn't understand anything. He was too angry. Too confused.

Living in ignorance was not something that Armin could ever do.

"Then I'll figure it out myself," Armin said firmly.

"Armin, no," Eren whispered.

"Don't you dare," Armin said, pointing a finger at Eren's face and taking a deep breath. "Don't you dare. You don't get to do that. Try to convince me to not figure this out. If you don't know what happened, and if you don't want to know, then fine! I won't tell you when I find out."

"Now that's just fucking immature," Eren said, squinting at him. "Why can't you just… leave this alone? If it's really been seven years, then… let's be real here, okay?" Eren's face seemed to crumple a little, his eyes dropping to the floor as his mouth opened and closed, the edges of his lips sticking together and peeling slowly apart as he struggled to speak. Armin watched this, and he felt guilty. "You're the only one still looking."

Armin felt a pang of despair. Eren must be feeling crushed at the thought, at the mere idea that his life could have meant so little to the people of this community. He must feel betrayed. Armin sure did.

"I'm going to figure this out," Armin said firmly. "And you know what I think?"

Eren perked up. His eyes darted wildly across Armin's face, and he tilted his head curiously.

"What do you think?" he whispered eagerly.

Armin glanced behind him. Around the room. He peered into the hall.

Where was that little beast lurking?

"I think this has something to do with Kenny."

"Kenny?" Eren sounded distant. "Creepy Kenny?"

"The one and only."

"You think he killed me?" Eren tilted his head from one side to the other. "That's kinda fascinating."

"I don't know why he'd want to kill you," Armin said cautiously. "But he's certainly not above that sort of thing."

Eren's expression became very dark. "No," he said, averting his gaze sharply. "I guess he's not."

"Tell me," Armin said, turning about in place, his eyes moving around the living room, roving the corners and searching the crevices between furniture. He would not be a victim in a horror movie, and he would not let that terrible little boy sneak up on him again. "What do you know about him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Armin sighed, glancing at the _Parables of Sina_, which he'd left on the table. He was reminded that Eren knew something of this Wall Cult business, and so did Kenny Ackerman. Something here added up, and Armin just knew it. "I mean, you were always closer to Mikasa than I was."

"Don't say that!" Eren looked angry, but not angry enough that his skin rippled. "You're just as close! Hell, she tells you she loves you all the time! She never told me that."

"She probably didn't think she had to," Armin whispered. "Anyway! Not the point!"

"What was the point?" Eren asked impatiently. "That I know something about Creepy Ackerman? Beyond that he was a gross, unstable, pitiful excuse for a human being?"

"Eren, I know you know something," Armin said. The room was so very cold, and Armin could taste the water in the air, the residual dirt clinging to his teeth and lips as he breathed it in. He stared into Eren's eyes, and Eren stared back. Why was he here? If he was really, truly dead, and not some hallucination, why was he still here? "If you don't tell me, I'm going to start snooping."

"What the hell am I supposed to know about that guy?" Eren glowered at the floor. "Just leave it alone. He probably has nothing to do with this."

"What's the Wall Cult?" Armin asked him, feeling along the walls and pressing his ear to one. He heard nothing from within, not a scratch or a sigh. Eren didn't seem to notice his odd behavior. He was fixed on the question.

"The Wall…?" Eren leaned back, looking alarmed. "What…?"

"You put a book on hold at Historia's antique store the night you disappeared," Armin reminded him gently, whirling to face him. "It turns out Kenny had the same book."

"Did he…?" Eren looked even more alarmed, his mouth falling open and his thick eyebrows knitting together. "Armin, look. Listen. I don't know anything. I don't remember what happened that night!"

"_Why_, though?" Armin growled, shaking his head furiously. He was unable to meet Eren's eye, afraid of what he might see. "What happened? What could have happened to you that was so terrible that you just forgot it happened?"

Armin knew, though.

He knew from Eren's flickering face, golden to pale, dry to dripping, fire-eyed to dull gazed.

Eren had died in Titan's Maw. His waxy skin was perpetually damp, and his lips shocked blue from the vicious cold.

Now. The question was… where was his body?

_Didn't Historia say once_, Armin thought dazedly, _that even Reiner could sink to the bottom of Titan's Maw with something heavy enough?_

The thought was jarring to Armin. It meant that someone must have wanted Eren to sink.

"I don't know," Eren whispered.

Somehow, Armin didn't believe him.

"Did you hate him?" Armin asked Eren sharply.

"What? Kenny?" Eren snorted in disbelief. "Uh, yeah. I still do. I want him to swallow cyanide. Fall into a pit of scorpions. I want him to be ripped to fucking shreds."

Armin could not disagree. "Because he hurt Mikasa," he clarified. "Yes?"

Eren eyed him warily. "What's this about?" he asked. "What does it have to do with me?"

"I don't know yet," Armin sighed, ruffling his hair furiously. "I don't know. Isn't that terrible? Me not knowing." He gave a bitter laugh of disbelief, and he whirled away. He had to think. It was so hard to think with Eren freezing the room over, turning the air stale and frigid, sucking the energy from the atmosphere.

Eren appeared before him, his eyes flashing furiously. Armin could feel his frustration, but it never affected his appearance, never stole away from the mask of wellness that Eren put on just for Armin's sake. He hated it. Let him be a frightening monster of a boy. Let him drip and sigh and moan, drag his nails across the walls and frighten the world with his unbearable nature.

"You're not obligated to know everything," Eren said to him gently. "And… it's probably better that way. You'd be better off, you know, living in ignorance."

"I'm not ignorant," Armin snapped. "And I refuse to let myself be idle while your corpse is sitting out there somewhere, rotting away! Fuck, Eren!" He buried his face in his hands, foolish and frightened and half-feigning his despair. He knew, he knew, he knew. He knew how Eren worked. Just as Eren knew him.

"Quit it," Eren snapped. "I'm fine with being dead, so you need to chill about it. You said it's been seven years. Stop worrying about me." He stared at Armin with softening eyes, his breath stinging the air. "Stop worrying about me…"

Armin shook his head. He shook it and shook it. It wasn't fair that Eren was doing this to him, trying to dissuade him from the truth. It wasn't fair that Eren was dead, and it wasn't fair that Armin had to deal with that. It wasn't fair that he had to accept that his best friend was gone, even if he was standing right beside him.

He had to figure this out, or else he might truly lose his mind.

Truly.

He turned from Eren, not bothering to respond that _of course_ he worried about him. The boy was dead, dead, dead, gone and decomposing somewhere, his soul left to flicker in and out of existence. Armin hadn't even really known if he'd believed in souls until this point in his life. He was so lost, and he was not prepared for this sort of spiritual fuckery.

He left the room, left Eren standing there, and wandered outside, his bare feet clapping against the cool metal staircase. He needed to organize, and he needed to focus. Firstly, he did not know if Eren's death had been an accident. But considering his body had yet to appear, Armin was leaning toward homicide. Meaning he needed suspects.

His first suspect was Kenny Ackerman.

In the catacombs of Armin's memory, he could see it. The welts. The bruises. The bandages.

He paused as he stood in the middle of Mikasa's garage, staring at his disheveled reflection in the gleaming window of her bent up Camaro. He tilted his head, and the dead eyed boy's neck bent harshly, smacking against his shoulder as though dropped, as though held by a thin string that had been severed quite suddenly. He turned slowly, lifting his cardigan and then his shirt, eying his pale skin as it became bare in the black surface of the window. He watched his own eyes flicker, moving from his round face to the dip of his spine.

There had never been a scar. There had never been a real mark to begin with. It had hurt, certainly, to be struck with a belt, but Armin never bore a scar from Kenny Ackerman's cruelty. Not like Mikasa. Not like Eren. Those two… had always protected him… and now what? One was traumatized and one was dead. And Armin?

He was staring at a scar.

No, not a scar.

A scratch.

He ran his unsteady fingers over the raised skin, and hissed through his teeth when he realized it _hurt_. This was a fresh wound, a recent graze on his skin that was hardly a cut, and already half a scab. But it was real. It was there.

When had this happened?

He dropped his shirt, rubbing his face and ignoring Eren as he passed by him. He was watching Armin silently, his bold green eyes following his every movement, his face pinched with confusion.

Okay. Suspect one. Kenny Ackerman.

Motive?

Sadism? Rage? He certainly never cared for Eren. There was a cigarette burn on the inside of Eren's arm that proved it. He'd never told his parents, of course, too stubborn and too enraged. He'd wanted to get revenge on Kenny by himself. Armin wondered if he ever succeeded.

He grabbed a hammer from a toolbox sitting on a long metal table. It weighed heavily in his hand.

"What are you gonna do with that?" Eren asked warily.

Armin swung the hammer idly at his side, and he thought about it. Well, he could certainly kill someone with a hammer, but he'd never get away with it. It'd be a sloppy way to do away with Kenny Ackerman, and Armin was many things, but he did not think he was sloppy.

"I'm going to dig up some skeletons," Armin replied, exiting the garage. As he moved to the switch beside the folding door, he noted someone watching him. From the parking lot. Someone was leaning against their car, watching the building with a smile so big that it was blinding. Armin threw a glance behind him at Eren, but Eren was no longer there. Well, shit.

"Excuse me," he called, punching the button and ducking beneath the whirring mechanical garage door as it lowered. "We're closed."

"Oh?" The person was very lanky, dressed in loose slacks and a shapeless blue blazer. Their hair was a complete and utter rat's nest, tied up at the back of their head and knotted messily so strands stuck up and around and fell into their warm hued face. A pair of gleaming eyes watched him from thick framed glasses. "Is it because of the Ackerman girl?"

The hammer weighed heavily at his side. He stared at the person, his eyes widening momentarily before he schooled his features.

"Are you a customer?" he asked warily.

"I'm curious," the person laughed, pushing off their car. They strode up to Armin, offering out their hand. "My name is Hange. I'm a professor at the Uni."

"A professor in what?" Armin asked, genuinely curious now.

Hange beamed at him. "Ah!" they cried, clapping their hands. "I'm so glad you asked! I teach cultural and biological anthropology, but I have a degree in parapsychology. I actually lived here while I was doing my final dissertation."

"Your capstone," Armin clarified. "That's actually what I'm doing right now! Well…" He glanced away from their face quickly. "Not the parapsychology thing. I'm an investigative journalism major."

"Investigative journalism!" Hange's eyes twinkled brightly. "That's a fun field! What's your thesis?"

"Um…" He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "I'm actually investigating… the disappearance of a boy who used to live here…"

"Oh." Hange's face fell a little. They glanced up at the garage, and they nodded sympathetically. "Man, that's tough. How's it going? How did you even build an investigation out of that?"

Armin wasn't especially surprised that they knew who he was talking about, but he couldn't help but be struck silent. He flushed in embarrassment, and stammered to answer. "W-well…" He swung the hammer at his side, glowering at it, hating himself for his nervousness. "I… I started with the police, checking their investigation and… and going from there…"

"I didn't even know the police did an investigation," Hange said vacantly. "Huh! You learn something new every day, how about that? Well, you should keep me updated on that. They never found a body, right?" Hange was no longer smiling, and they stared up at the garage, their expression somber and hardened. "Do you live here?"

Armin's hands were sweaty. He nodded slowly. "Y-yeah…"

"That's interesting." They glanced at Armin, and they smiled wickedly. "You know, I don't mean to frighten you, but I think your house is haunted."

He was taken aback by their candidness, by their bright smile and glittering eyes. He glanced at the garage behind him, and then back at Hange. "Uh…" he said, his distress causing the pitch of his voice to heighten, breaking apart upon air contact.

"I received a call from your house last night," Hange explained hastily. "At around three am. I answered, of course, because I was awake grading papers— never become a teacher, okay, kiddo? You look like a nice person, and I'd hate to see you lose your head. Anyways, I was grading papers, and my phone rang, and I heard—" They laughed brightly. "Well, the voice was very breathy and small, like a child's. You don't have a kid, do you?"

"No…" Armin felt sick at the thought. "No, I… I… I'm sorry, how'd you know it was my house?"

Hange blinked at him. "I used to live here, remember?" They smiled at him gently. "I knew the number from before… well, you know." Their eyes wandered up to the apartment sadly. "I haven't been in the house since then. Kenny still lurking around, or did he boot it?"

"You know Kenny?" Armin tried not to sound too horrified, but it was too much. He couldn't do it. His voice came out sharp and disgusted, his face contorting and his lips twisting. Hange glanced at him fast, and they shook their head furiously.

"Ah, no, I wasn't his friend!" Hange laughed at that, a boisterous laugh, a forced laugh. "Wow, no, never. That guy needs a hot firepoker shoved down his throat. But I was a friend of Levi's. Oh, speaking of, how is that girl? Mikasa? I only met her once, and she was so tiny—"

"Levi?" Armin cut them off sharply, bemusement spilling into his voice and staining his face. "Who's Levi?"

Hange stared at him. Armin watched their eyes widen very fast, and then avert, and then, in a great swoop of anxious emotion, their entire demeanor changed. They were thinking fast. As was Armin. Levi. Levi? Armin felt like he'd heard that name before, but nothing was clicking.

"You don't know…?" Hange sounded very confused, and they leaned back on their heels. "Whoa. Okay. This just got weird." They checked their phone quickly, and a shrill shriek fell from their mouth. "Ah! Shit, shit, shit, okay, kid, I'm sorry, but I have a class—"

"It's fine," Armin gasped, blinking rapidly. "Also, Mikasa's okay. How'd you know—?"

"Here's my card," Hange said, clapping a tiny retangular paper into Armin's empty fist. "There's way too much to talk about, like I'd need a few hours. And also, I want to have a look at your house to make sure it's actually got activity. What's your name?"

"Armin," he said weakly, lost in this person's bizarre words and hurried pace. He could not understand what they were talking about, because they were thinking faster than him, and they knew something he didn't.

"Armin!" Hange whirled away. "Awesome! Call me if anything weird happens, okay?" They headed toward their car, and as they climbed into it, the paused. "Ah! Also, I want to hear more about your thesis! Like, a lot more! I want your entire investigation!"

"Okay…" Armin glanced down at the card. Hange Zoe, it said. Paranormal Investigator.

Well. Shit.

How did this even happen?

Armin watched Hange drive away, and his fist clenched around his hammer. Fuck. He wanted to smack himself in the face with it.

He was angry because… because…

Because he didn't know anything.

Who the fuck was Levi?

He didn't know a goddamn thing.

Armin trudged up the steps, his bare feet dragging, and he entered the apartment with a newfound sluggishness. However, he was motivated now more than ever to crack this case. He went to his room, swinging the hammer idly and biting the inside of his cheek as he gazed at the painting that had been dancing upon his last nerve for weeks.

He examined his options, and finally decided to just go for it. Subtlety be damned, he was getting to the bottom of this. He used the claw of the hammer to yank the first nail from the corner of the painting, and he stumbled a little as he put the majority of his strength into pulling it from the wall. He watched as it fell to the floor, clattering against the wood, and he took a deep breath and set back to work.

"What are you doing?" Eren asked curiously. He appeared on Armin's bed.

Armin ignored him. Another nail fell to the floor. The painting was growing crooked.

"That's an awful painting," Eren said. "Who even put it there?"

Again, he was silent. He had tears in his eyes. He hated this. He hated this.

Eren was dead.

He hated this.

"Why is it nailed to the wall?" Eren asked.

He hated this.

Who'd kill Eren?

Who'd have the heart and the strength to kill someone like Eren Jaeger?

Who could have possibly done such a terrible, cowardly thing?

Armin hated them.

He hated this.

He dropped the hammer, breathing heavier now as the painting fell askew, and behind it something peeked out, a triangle of gray beneath a layer of glass. Armin shook his head, and he held back his tears. He didn't want to understand this. But he did.

He mustered up his courage and he lifted the painting. It was heavy in his arms, the weight crushing his muscles and bones, his skin folding in itself from the force of it.

Before him, beneath the space were the painting had sat, there was a window. Beyond that, there was a room. That room was Mikasa's.

"What the fuck?" Eren exhaled in Armin's ear, peering over his shoulder and suddenly furious. "No way. No fucking way."

"Suspect one," Armin whispered. "Kenny Ackerman."

"He had a two way mirror installed…" Eren was breathless, and his face was stricken and white, sopping wet and bloodied on one side. "That… that sick fucking _bastard_, I'll rip him to fucking shreds!"

Armin leaned his forehead against the wall, his stomach stirring uneasily at the thoughts that surfaced in his mind. He thought he might've been in Miksasa's good favors enough that she'd tell him if Kenny had been sexually abusive as well as physically and verbally, but now he wasn't so sure. What did this mirror mean? Mikasa had known about it, clearly, and had made sure to cover it up when she could. But did that stop Kenny? Could anything have stopped him?

He didn't want to ask her, but after this…? How could he not?

"He was always creepy with Mikasa," Eren mumbled, sinking to the floor. "But not like this, Armin. Not like this."

"Are you denying it, or stating an absolute fact?" Armin peered down at him, his temple resting against the wall and his body slouching in exhaustion. "Some of her bruises… could have lined up with—"

"She would have told me, okay?" Eren snapped at him. "No. We're not going down that road. This…" Eren's gauzy eyes roved upward, searching the two way mirror dazedly. "This hasn't got anything to do with Mikasa. I'm sure of it."

"You're sure," Armin said uncertainly. "Absolutely?"

"Yeah." Eren's bad side, a side where a portion of his skull had caved in and blood had caressed down his neck and stroked his cheekbone, kissing the grooves of his ear and combed through the thick strands of his damp hair. Armin couldn't help but think, under any other circumstance, the pattern would be lovely. "I'd have known, okay? I would never let something like that happen to her."

"Okay," Armin sighed. "Okay, I believe you. But that doesn't explain this. Or… Kenny's connection with you."

"We don't have any sort of connection," Eren said fiercely.

"I just meant that he's a suspect."

"Because of some weird cult bullshit?" He shook his head furiously. "I don't know, Armin! I don't remember being into any of that."

"You could have been tailing Kenny." Armin hung the painting back up, unable to stomach looking through the mirror any longer. Even the creepy painting was far better than this terrible clue. He wandered over to the box, and he picked up Kenny's copy of _The Cult of Walls._ "I'm still working my way through this, but it looks like there was a lot of weird ritualistic stuff. Most of it was blood magic. Offerings and stuff to old gods who granted power, and stuff like that. Listen to this teaching here!" Armin flipped hurriedly through the stained, bleached out pages. "'Discipline requires pain. Victory requires sacrifice.' It's all about throwing yourself away to do what might be considered "right" on a cosmic level, but not on a human level. The worst part, I can't even tell if I agree with it or not."

"It…" Eren stood up, his brow furrowed. "It doesn't sound wrong. But... also, it's really vague. Pain isn't the only way to achieve discipline, and victory… doesn't require sacrifice… just a person willing to sacrifice." Eren sighed, and he rubbed his head. "I'm so tired. I've been awake too long."

"Go to sleep," Armin said, thumbing through the thin pages. "I'll be here or at the hospital with Mikasa."

"No, you don't…" Eren let out a loud, irritated sigh. "Never mind."

"What?"

"I said never mind."

Armin clapped the book shut, and he tossed it aside. "Kenny's the first suspect," Armin said. "The obvious one. Now we're heading into some risky territory."

"Oh?" Eren asked eagerly.

"Suspect two." Armin stared directly into Eren's eyes. The boy sat eagerly, his appearance flickering jauntily between warm and beautiful and wet and bloody. "You."

Eren's smile fell. He looked horrified for a fraction of a second.

"Tell me," Armin begged, "if I'm wrong."

Eren did not.

He opened his mouth. And then he closed it. His brow furrowed desperately.

"I don't know," he whispered.

That was the entire fucking problem.

No one fucking knew.

Armin hated this.

"It's not a good theory," Armin said, biting his lip. "But it's honestly not something I can rule out, not yet. You were acting really weird that night, Eren."

There were some flaws in this. Why would Eren take Mikasa and Armin with him if he planned on killing himself? Well, it's entirely possible it hadn't been his intention when he'd gone into the forest.

But who really understood Eren?

Certainly not Eren.

"You won't confirm or deny it," he said curtly, feeling despicable as he spoke. "So I'm not ruling it out. You could have killed yourself. It's not unusual. I think about it all the time."

Eren stood. His eyes were wide. His mouth was parted.

"Armin, that's…" Eren faded. Not flickered. Faded. His color was sucked away, and his outline lingered, his lips open and moving slow as he resurfaced dimly. "Not good… stop it."

"Stop thinking about dying?" Armin tilted his head. "That's ironic. Coming from you."

"Oh man, shut up."

Armin smiled at him weakly. "Sorry," he said, feeling squeamish and worn thin. "Was that insensitive?"

"A little."

"I'm really sorry," he said, earnestly this time. He hadn't meant to poke fun at Eren, and dead jokes hadn't been off limits before. Eren had encouraged them until this point. It could be that he was just feeling very uncertain because of the possibility that he had killed himself. Armin didn't like the theory. But he didn't like the idea that someone had successfully murdered him either.

"It's okay," Eren sighed. "I just… I don't know. It's killing me. Pun fucking intended, asshole."

Armin laughed for real, and it felt so nice to laugh, to let it fall away from him and smash the constraints that bound his heart to his chest and to his ribs, the stones falling to his stomach and letting a chain effect run wild, a string cut and a latch sprung and a thousand butterflies set free to bat their wings against the walls of his abdomen.

It was so nice to feel this way again. It had been too long since Armin had felt truly happy.

"I'm sorry," he said as his laughter died away. "All I've been doing is making you sadder. It's not my intention to cause you pain, you know, it's never been. I just need to know."

"But why?" Eren groaned. "Why is it so important? Do you want me to go away that badly?"

"What? No!" Armin could not fathom why he'd ask something like that. "I don't want you to go anywhere!"

"I'll disappear if you figure this out, Armin," Eren warned him, his head lowering to punctuate just how serious he was. "You should listen to me and leave it alone."

"I can't."

"I'm not going to help you."

"That's fine," he sighed. "I just… if the situation was reversed, Eren, what would you do?"

"I'd stop looking," Eren snapped. "If I knew finding out how you died meant I'd never see you again, that you'd disappear forever, maybe move on to some higher plane or be reincarnated or go to hell or just cease to exist entirely, I'd stop. Because I don't want to lose you." Eren folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not angry that knowledge means more to you than sentiment, but fuck, Armin. Give me a break. I don't want to go away yet."

For all it was worth, Armin did not burst into tears. He wanted to. He almost puked right then and there, a sob squeezing his throat like a noose tightening and squeaking as it hung him out to dry. He blinked back the bad thoughts and the painful tears, and he closed his eyes.

"Tell me again," Armin whispered, "to stop looking for your murderer."

It wasn't a warning. It wasn't a threat.

Armin's voice was soft and imploring.

He begged.

He hated this.

And Eren could not answer. Perhaps he was crying too. Armin could not tell, because his cheeks were already slick with moisture.

The doorbell rang, and in a sharp blink, Eren was gone from the room, and the icy air settled for just a moment. Armin exhaled, and he buried his face in his hands, swallowing a rigid sob. It scratched his esophagus on the way down.

He wiped his tears away, hoping he wasn't too much of a mess, and he wandered into the hall. Eren was standing beside the door, waiting patiently, his skin so very warm, and his eyes so very bright, and he smiled excitedly.

"Annie!" he gasped, looking so… very… happy…

Armin just felt sicker and sicker. He opened the door.

"Hey," he said, rubbing his eyes and sniffling a bit. Annie stared up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Hi. Sorry, I… just got up."

"You look like you've been crying." She shoved past him into the house. Typical Annie. "Is Mikasa okay?"

"She's fine," Armin gasped, astonished that Annie cared so much. "She will be, at least. She was pretty banged up, but it could have been worse."

"Good." Annie nodded distantly. "Good. Okay. Go get dressed."

"What? Why?"

Annie glanced at him. Her icy eyes had nothing on the air around them. She even shivered a little, her brow furrowing. "Just get into something presentable that's not completely filthy," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're going to see the Jaegers."

"My parents?" Eren blurted from behind Armin's head, his voice slithering sharply into Armin's ear. "Oh fuck. I don't think I'm ready for this. Oh my god. I think I'm gonna puke."

Armin refrained from reminding Eren that he was dead, so he could not, in fact, puke.

"Oh," Armin said distantly. "Wait, me too? Are you sure that's a good…?"

"Yes," she said, throwing him a sharp glare. "This is for you, so you better get your ass dressed into something presentable quick, because I'm on my lunch break."

"Oh!" He nodded quickly, whirling away from her. "Okay, uh… just stay right there, I'll be super fast!"

"Sure."

Armin ran to his room, closing his door and leaning against it, staring vacantly at his bed and feeling his heart pounding. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. What was he supposed to say to the Jaegers? I'm sorry your son is fucking dead? I'm sorry that I'm looking for his fucking dead body? I'm sorry I was a terrible friend to him? It was just a disaster waiting to happen, especially considering how much they blamed him for what had happened.

_You're supposed to be the responsible one_, Carla's distant voice crashed into his brain like a wave upon palisades. _You know Eren, you know the influence you had on him! Why didn't you stop him? _

It was a question Armin had been asking himself for years.

He stripped off his soiled cardigan, ignoring Eren as he appeared beside him, watching with shadowy eyes and a chilly demeanor. He was on edge, his body flickering so violently that it hurt Armin's eyes to look. He didn't want to see his parents, but at the same time he did, and Armin understood because he was just as scared.

"Annie can't see you," he whispered, bundling his dirty clothes in a ball and tossing them in a basket in the corner. Eren was still watching him. Armin reminded himself over and over that it wasn't weird, that they'd always been like this. Right? Armin hated the feeling of nakedness, but Eren and Mikasa… they'd never been shy with him. He should feel the same. Right?

Ah. Damn. He didn't know.

"No." Eren's voice was smooth and distant. "No, I don't know. I don't know why. I don't know who can see me and who can't."

Armin nodded. He dug through his drawers for something to wear, and he felt Eren lingering very close. He felt him in the air, not existing but not fading, and he was breathing with ice laying itself down on the pale hairs that stood on Armin's neck. He stood, his eyes widening as he felt the cold jolt along his ribs, dragging slow on the protruding bone, and he saw with a vicious clarity the sight of water rushing and he heard a scream so terrible that it rung like a crashing bell inside his ears.

Armin shuddered against Eren's touch, and he lurched away, hugging his arms around his chest, tears stinging his eyes.

"Don't do that!" he gasped, rubbing the bumpy skin where Eren's ghostly fingers had grazed him.

Eren stood sadly. No, he wasn't standing.

He was floating.

Half his body had disappeared, and he was hovering in a vaguely opaque state, looking sad and stark and stupefied.

"You're not eating," Eren whispered. "You fucking— you fucking—!"

Eren erased himself from existence as a knock at his door peeled Armin's soul from his skin.

"Are you okay?" Annie called.

"Y-yeah!" Armin cried, his voice breaking so pitifully that his tears could not be contained, and he rubbed his eyes furiously. "Yeah, I'm fine!"

"I thought I heard you shouting."

Armin sniffled, and he dragged a pair of jeans over his boxers, staring at his bandaged hands and wishing he were someone else. Someone who cared less or cared more. Someone who wasn't smart, who was brave and bright and bold. Someone like Eren.

It took a lot not to start sobbing.

"I'm fine," he called, his voice empty.

Annie didn't respond. He was angry with himself for lying to her, but he couldn't do anything else. He was too good at lying.

He wanted Eren to come back and yell at him some more.

He exited his room hastily, tugging a dark sweater over his head as he bumped into Annie, apologizing half-heartedly as he covered his pallid ribcage.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

She stared at him, her droopy eyes narrowing a bit, and she seemed to deliberate something quickly as she gave him a once over. Whatever it was, she ignored it, and grabbed his arm. It was difficult not to seem jumpy around her, to not seem distant and sad, and he was struggling to school himself. He was falling into old patterns, and she was watching him drown.

He sat in the passenger side of her cruiser, staring down at his bandaged hands which were folded in his lap. She glanced at him as she pulled out of the garage's lot. There was a wall between them, and Armin could feel it thickening. He wanted to be able to talk to her, because she was important to him, and she was known to be a recluse. But he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"You know," she said carefully, unable to meet his eye. She rested her wrist against the wheel, her shoulders tense. "You could have told me this upsets you."

"What?" he blurted, glancing at her sharply. "No—!"

"I know what you look like when you cry," she told him curtly. "Cut the shit."

"Annie…" Armin stared at her desperately. "I… Oh, god. I'm just… sad, I think. I miss Eren a lot."

"We all do."

"I know," he whispered. "I know. It's not… it's nothing. Forget it."

She blinked, her eyes focused solely on the road, but he could tell that she was disappointed and unsure. He wrung his hands, and the barrier between them became a chasm.

They were creatures of habit.

They would never be able to get around how truly awful they were.

He hated this.

He hated all of this.

He should never have returned.

He hated himself so badly for leaving and wanting to leave again.

Annie parked the car, but she did not get out. She turned to face him, and she watched him sternly. "Whatever is really bothering you is your business," she hissed. "But don't fucking cry in front of these people. They've been through enough."

"Yeah." Armin swallowed thickly, and he nodded. Annie's face softened for only a second, her eyes closing tight before she kicked the door open and climbed out, slamming it shut. Armin followed her, hugging his ribs and thinking of Eren's chilly touch, the horror of his fingers passing through skin and bone and dragging through him. The image that struck, the scream that sailed and wailed through his head, on a perpetually looping track.

Annie knocked on the door, and Armin stuck behind her, his head bowed. He heard screams like music notes striking in his head. He heard strings being plucked and struck and rubbed finely with flaxen bows. He heard percussion and friction and strumming. He heard strings snapping under the soul crushing crack of a head and a neck.

He could not take this anxiety.

Eren's death sung like a symphony inside Armin's brain.

Carla Jaeger answered the door, smiling vividly. Her eyes fell on Armin, and the smile was dampened only slightly. Then, quickly, she recovered.

"Oh my," she gasped. "Annie, you didn't say Armin was joining you!"

"It was a last minute thing," Armin explained hastily. "I met up with her, and asked if I could come. If I'm intruding—"

"Oh, don't be silly," Carla said, shaking her head and waving them inside. "I'll just have to make more tea."

Annie entered the house, and Armin reluctantly followed. Nostalgia carved itself into him, and he wanted to pull his skin off. This was difficult. He couldn't swallow_. Don't cry_, he reminded himself. _Don't do it_.

He smiled at Carla, wringing his hands behind his back. His heart was not in this. He heard strings in his head, melodies playing striking hard at his chest.

"It's really good to see you," she said to him, sounding genuine and throwing him off guard. "You've gotten so big…"

"I…" Armin blinked rapidly. He had not been expecting such a warm welcome. "I… well, I grew…"

Carla laughed, and she mussed his hair gently, reaching up and smoothing the bangs from his forehead. "Oh," she said, stroking the scar above his brow. "What happened here?"

"I fell," he said, holding back his emotional turmoil. "I hit my head on some concrete. I'm okay, though."

She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth very sternly. "You're still so clumsy," she sighed, smiling at him fondly. "You look very pale. Perhaps Grisha should have a look at you."

"That's not necessary," Armin gasped, waving his hands hurriedly.

"And you, Annie?" Carla led them into the living room, and Armin's eyes fell immediately upong the piano in the corner. "How's police work suiting you?"

"Boring as hell," Annie said. "I mostly handle paperwork. It's gross."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Carla sighed. Armin glanced, and he saw Grisha sitting placidly on the sofa, his legs crossed and the morning paper in hand. "Grisha, look who's here."

Eren's father only resembled him vaguely. His hair and eye color were passed down, but otherwise it was clear that Eren had received his smooth face and dark skin from his mother. So basically Eren could attribute the majority of his good looks to her.

"Armin," said Grisha, folding the paper slowly. His alarm did not reach his eyes. Perhaps he'd read Armin all along. Was he truly so transparent, even after so long? "You've gotten so tall."

"That's what I said!" Carla clapped Armin's shoulder, and she smiled at him so warmly he couldn't meet her gaze. "You've grown into a beautiful young man, you know."

"Thanks…" He flushed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. This was awkward. Annie was watching him, and he found himself turning an even deeper shade of red, mortified at how amused she looked.

"Sit," Carla insisted. Armin did, though he realized a little too late how strange he probably looked. Out of pure habit he took a seat on the floor beside the coffee table, where he'd often ate and chatted with Eren in years past. Annie decidedly ignored him and sat on a couch, folding her arms across her chest and looking rather awkward. "Tea?"

"Uh, sure." Armin sat, watching her pour it, and he thought about Eren. He'd been so distraught upon finding out Armin was going to see his parents. So where was he? Where had he gone? A shudder passed through him as the recollection of Eren's intangible fingertips brushing his ribcage.

"Cold, Armin?" Carla asked him.

"Ah." Armin rubbed his arms sheepishly. "A little. I had a long night, so I'm a kinda exhausted."

"Oh, we saw on the news!" Carla set down the teapot, and she glanced at Grisha. "I was going to visit her today, but Annie called. She said something about… about Eren?"

Armin shot Annie a sharp look, but she took no notice. "Yes, I did say that," she said. "Is Dr. Jaeger in charge of Mikasa?"

"No," he said. "I'm rarely in the pediatric ward. Which, despite her age, is where she's being kept. That was my suggestion, actually."

"You wanted her to be comfortable," Armin murmured, staring down into his teacup. "So you put her around kids."

Grisha smiled, tilting his head. "Very astute," he noted. "Yes, that was my reasoning."

"That was very nice of you."

"She's okay, isn't she?" Carla asked quickly. "I… I haven't spoken to her in nearly a year. I feel so terrible…"

"No, don't," Armin gasped. "She's fine. She'll recover really fast, knowing Mikasa."

"About Eren," Annie said, leaning forward. "I came here because I wanted to tell you that he never had an investigation."

Annie Leonhardt. Ever so subtle.

Their faces reflected just how shitty the situation was.

They were blank. Disbelieving.

"That can't be true, can it…?" Carla sat down very slowly. Grisha said nothing. "The police worked with us during the entire ordeal… they… they helped, didn't they?"

"Maybe they did at first," Annie said. "But as it happened, they stopped. Without putting the proper effort into finding Eren."

"All the case file says is who the witnesses were," Armin piped up, "and the events leading up to Eren's disappearance. Nothing else of value. No suspects or theories. It's as though they didn't _want_ to find him."

Carla looked very pale, and Grisha glanced at her. He placed his hand on her knee. "Tell me," he said quietly. "Do either of you think my son is still alive?"

Annie stiffened. Armin crumpled.

He hated this.

If he cried now, what would they do? Had they not blamed him from the start? Rejected him for his lapse of judgment?

What had happened that night?

"I see," Grisha murmured. Carla stared at them, her jaw tightening and her eyes hardening. She was furious. He was calm. It was easy to see who Eren took after. "And you're telling us this now, Annie, because…?"

"Armin is doing an independent investigation," Annie explained, folding her hands in her lap. "He is not tied with the police, and therefore he's not restricted to answering to a higher up who might quell that sort of… insubordination." As Annie spoke, Armin began to suspect that she had been snooping around the subject of Eren's disappearance far longer than Armin. "Therefore he's free to actually give Eren the investigation he deserves. It might not mean much, so many years later, but…"

"And you?" Grisha folded his hands over his mouth, watching her from behind his glasses. "What will your role be in this investigation, Annie?"

"I have no role," she said simply. "I'm not connected to Armin or his investigation."

They got the hint. Carla's eyes were filled with angry tears. And Armin? He sat. He thought. Strings were striking hard in his heart, and he heard them and he felt them but he did not understand them. The music had never been something he could read or learn. He'd tried, but he'd never succeeded. Symphonies were coded in his soul, and he could not find the goddamn cipher.

"Is there news, then?" Carla whispered, tears brimming her dark eyes. "Armin? Have you found something?"

He wanted to be snide with her, to snap and scream that she'd blamed him for Eren's disappearance from the beginning, But he was not so cruel, and he was not so bold, and he scratched his bandages and thought. Was there something new? Had he honestly found anything?

Eren was standing behind his mother now, watching her with damp eyes. He flickered, and Armin's breath caught in his throat. How could he even say that Eren was real? He had no proof.

Eren could very well be a shuddering figment of Armin's wavering imagination. Reality? Reverie? Armin slept so little and dreamt so much, it was hard to say if Eren was not just some nightmare bleeding into the land of the wakened.

"I…" Armin pressed his lips together thinly. Eren's eyes met his, and there was a jolt of cello strings screeching against a flaxen bow. Eren had never played the cello. He'd played the piano. Piano strings didn't screech. They bellowed.

"Tell her why I left the house that night," Eren said, his voice a musicbox of melody. Every word struck the air with a shrill, sweet note. "Tell her that I went to kill myself."

_But that's not true_, Armin wanted to say, his eyes flashing wide as he squeezed his hands tightly. _That's wrong! Right? Right?_

"Stop looking like you're gonna puke," Eren sighed. "It's not true... Just tell her so she… so she stops worrying. If she thinks I killed myself, sure she'll… she'll be sad. But she'll get over that. She's waiting for me to come home, Armin." Eren strolled through the coffee table to stand at Armin's back, crouching down beside him and tilting his head. "Well here I fucking am. What good does that do anyone? None. I'm dead. What does it matter how it happened?"

Armin couldn't respond of course, that'd be too suspicious, and no matter the struggle of the words against his throat, strangling him and clawing him, he could not spit them out.

He jumped to his feet. It wasn't fair of him to steal hope from the Jaegers. If he could not crack this case, if he could not dredge up the secrets that had died with Eren, then who was he to take the last shred of light from these people, that last little wish for a happy ending?

Eren's words made sense, but Armin could not and would not oblige. He was a liar, sure, but he'd bury himself before her buried Eren under this fabrication.

"For right now," Armin said, turning from them, unable to look them in the face, "it's a matter of retracing Eren's steps. That's why I'm here." Eren was so close that he was sapping Armin's energy away, dragging him from his very skin by being in the air that he breathed. "I want to know Eren's behavior before he disappeared."

"You were there," Eren said from his place on the floor. "You know how I acted."

"Oh," Carla gasped, glancing from Grisha to Armin. "Well… he was very… moody, you might say. But you knew him, Armin, you know what he was like. He had a hair trigger temper, but it was… always for good reason…"

"Did Eren get angry that night?" Armin asked eagerly. "He never said. All he said to me was that he wanted to show me something in the woods."

"That doesn't sound like something Eren would do," Grisha observed. "He was very straight forward."

"Was I?" Eren appeared behind his father, staring down at him and frowning. "Maybe compared to you. Cryptic, lying, son of a bitch."

Armin decidedly kept his gaze away from Eren. "Eren could be secretive when he wanted to be," he said. "Let's not forget about how long he kept Mikasa's secret."

"Mikasa's secret?" Annie straightened up.

Eren looked at her. "Tell her it's none of her business," he said sharply.

"It's none of your business, Annie," Armin said quietly, unable to meet her eye.

She did not reply. If she was hurt she did not show it, if she was angry she let it die. Armin closed his eyes. He'd yell at Eren later for this.

"It's true," Carla pointed out. "Eren may have been outspoken, but he kept so many things from us…"

"Armin," Grisha said, "are you aware that Eren saw a doctor about a nervous condition?"

Armin did not like the wording choice there. His eyes narrowed. Eren was no longer by his father. Armin didn't know where he was. Annie just watched the scene unfold.

"That's an odd way to put it," Armin said carefully. "What does that mean?"

Carla sighed, shaking her head. "Eren was having trouble sleeping," she explained very hastily, so Grisha could not intervene. "He had… ah, not nightmares… but…?"

"Night terrors," Grisha said.

"Yes! Right, night terrors. Oh, and he was so bad with sleep walking… he had medication, of course, he just…" She shrugged very meagerly. "It wasn't really his fault, he was absentminded when it came to things like taking his vitamins in the morning. He remembered sometimes, sometimes I had to remind him. Some days he just went without."

"He never told me," Armin whispered. For all the times Eren had slept over, how had Armin never noticed?

"It was never a… a big deal, honestly," she said, blinking rapidly. "It was just the way Eren was, and it got to the point where we didn't think it was abnormal to find him outside in the middle of the night digging a hole or curled up in his closet, not really understanding what was going on, it was just…" She shook her head. "It happened. I won't pretend it didn't. And… I won't pretend like it's not possible that Eren wasn't fully awake the night he disappeared. Grisha and I tried to enforce the rule about medication— oh, not just for Eren, but for all of us and our various health issues. But we wanted to give Eren the freedom… and responsibility to know to take care of himself."

This was definitely something new that Armin had to take into account. He was angry it hadn't been in his file.

He was bitter he'd never been told.

"Thank you for telling me," he whispered. "I had no idea. It… definitely will give me a better idea of what was going on that night. Was Eren ever lucid when he had his night terrors? Did he ever talk to you?"

"Hardly," Grisha said quietly as Carla piped up, "Sometimes."

It was clear who Eren had favored.

"Like what?"

"Oh, such weird little things…" Carla pursed her lips. "I can't remember that well. Oh, but there was one time where he talked about Mikasa. Just, nonstop, he asked me if she was okay." She laughed at this now, but Armin felt a squirming in his stomach because he felt that fear of Eren's plainly. _Was_ Mikasa okay?

"Okay," Armin said. "Good to know."

Why had Eren wanted him to tell them that he'd killed himself? What would that have solved?

"Does anyone use that piano anymore?" Armin blurted. He'd been eying it from the moment he'd stepped into the room, memories prickling his tarnished soul, and he found himself wandering to it. Nostalgia hurt like a bitch.

"Oh…" Carla sounded distant. Hazy. Where had Eren gone off to now? "No. Not since Eren… ah, even before that. He hardly ever played after he quite lessons."

Annie twisted in her seat to watch him as he sat at the bench. He'd never been good at piano. He'd never had an ear for music, and he'd never been able to hold a tune. But he felt compelled to sit, to place his fingers on the smooth ivory keys, and to listen to the percussion sounds of his coiled heartbeat.

"Armin," Annie said cautiously.

He placed some meager pressure on the middle C, and the note cried as it smashed through the air, a hammer striking a string, a heartbeat colliding with a rib. Armin grimaced. He stared at the indented key, and the keyboard smiled a gap toothed smile up at him. Symphonies were not for him. His mind could pull apart the technique and the pulse of each instrument as they melded together into one cohesive tune.

Why hadn't Eren told him about the night terrors?

Why hadn't Mikasa told him about Kenny's abuse?

Why didn't he speak up, and let the truth of his own head spill out for all to see?

They were so close, and they loved each other so much, but it didn't matter.

They could never bear the burden of forcing their hardships onto someone else.

"C sharp, now," Eren whispered at his back. Armin jolted, and released the key. It clicked heavily back into place. He didn't dare look behind him. He knew they were all watching him. _Eren's here_, he wanted to scream at them. _He's been listening the entire time_.

He hit C sharp, but it didn't sound right to him. Too shrill, too short, too much noise and not enough. It was a terrible sound. He couldn't do this. What had he been thinking? All he'd wanted was to remember something happy for once. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn't even pretend that this wasn't his fault, he'd gotten himself into another glorious mess.

"Oh man," Eren muttered, his chilly presence seeping into the skin at the back of his neck. He reached around him carefully, and Armin stared with large eyes as Eren's cold cheek brushed his, no real feeling to his skin but icy air radiating from every pore, and the salient image of rocks and water. It was the feeling of unfeeling, the energy of Eren's soul crashing upon him. He'd never been this close before, at least not in a non-corporeal state. Armin watched Eren's dark hands, for even in death he seemed to have more color, more depth, more life than Armin ever could have. "You're kinda hopeless."

_Thanks_, Armin thought, swallowing his reply.

"Okay," Eren said, resting his hands on top of Armin's. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the bad things, but watching the flashes and the rushes anyway. "Let's try something. You okay with experimenting?"

Armin wanted to laugh, but he already felt too bizarre, so he merely nodded and let it happen as it happened. Eren's fingers disappeared as they melted into Armin's and the sensation was like sticking his fingers in a revolving fan and watching as his hand was slowly devoured from fingertip to wrist. It was vividly painful at first, but then, in a stark moment of breathlessness, his fingers were numb. And they were moving.

As Eren struck the keys of the piano through Armin's jittery hands, Armin realized something. This would be the closest he ever got to touching Eren again.

Ever.

Death was cruel but life was crueler.

The sound was too much. Chords blew Armin away, leaving him bare boned and breathless. Eren didn't know what he was doing, that was clear with the way he fumbled with the keys, but he was laughing in Armin's ear, his chin sinking into Armin's collarbone, and he laughed some more in utter joy.

He was filled was a crippling sadness when he realized that they would never hear Eren so happy again.

When he stopped, it was because Eren could not hold his hands inside Armin's skin any longer, and he stuttered like a small voice, his entire body flickering in a strobe light motion for a moment before he sunk away into the air, devoured by the light and the shadow. Armin's numb fingers were trembling against the polished white keys. Tears prickled his eyes.

How unfair.

He sunk into a slump, and imagined how incredibly strange he must look.

A hand brushed his back, real and warm, and a sob left his lips before he could stop it. Carla Jaeger rubbed his back gingerly.

"Eren taught that to you, didn't he?" she whispered, her eyes watery and dim. She smiled down at him, but Armin didn't feel very much like forcing his facial muscles to do a dance that they were weary of. He could not smile when he was so inexplicably devastated. "It's okay Armin. We all miss him."

_You don't understand_, he thought wildly, his head bowing in shame. _He's dead. He's dead, and I don't know why, and I feel responsible for that. It's all my fault, isn't it? Tell me that again, please, please, please, tell me it's my fault, because I'll believe you!_

But Carla Jaeger no longer blamed Armin for her son's disappearance. He could feel it in her stare, in her faint touch, and he wanted to scream.

"Armin," Annie said, "I have to head back."

"Yeah," he said. His voice was dead, and his heart was oozing from his grief. "Yeah. I'm coming." He lifted himself from the bench shakily, blinking dazedly at Carla as she held his shoulders. She was studying him quizzically. He nodded to her gratefully, and he shook Grisha's hand, and he hid behind his large eyes and parted lips to make them see some child that they'd known forever ago. He wasn't that little boy anymore, no matter how much he wished it.

Annie did not speak to him on the way back to the apartment. Her eyes were glued to the road. Finally, she parked, and she turned to face him with sharp eyes.

"You're hiding something," she said.

He stared into her harsh, pretty face, and he did not respond. He exited the car and did not look back. The chasm between them became a ravine, and a waterfall spilt across the gap, spitting and raging and swallowing up any remnants of geniality. They were creatures of habit, and he'd never opened up to her before, so why start now?

_I can't do this_, he thought, resting his head back against the closed front door, staring into the dimly lit hall and taking deep breaths to keep himself from crying. _I honestly can't do this, I can't solve Eren's fucking murder, I just can't!_

Thinking about Eren being dead made him want to wash the lies from his mouth with bleach.

He wandered to his room. He peered under his bed. He whistled. The Captain barked from the kitchen. Armin shook his head in disbelief, and he rubbed his eyes, checking his phone blearily. Jean had called him twice. He'd sent a bunch of texts too. Most of them were asking if he'd eaten, and if he was planning on coming back to the hospital before Mikasa was released later that night.

Armin tossed the phone onto his bed, and his heart bled a melody that he could not comprehend, percussion and strings, fucking cello bows striking the grooves of metal cables and spitting smooth, sharp, screeching scores of songs.

He dragged the box of books from his closet and emptied it onto the floor.

"I can hear you," he called when the scratching began. It stopped immediately. He shook his head and stacked the books order of relevance. Some of them were stolen library books, others were bought at yard sales, others brand new, some were torn up and some written up and some cut up with scissors and missing chunks of sentences.

Eren had been into this Wall Cult business, for whatever reason. Suspect two. Eren Jaeger.

He'd said he'd killed himself. And then he said he hadn't.

What was a lie and what was a truth?

"Sacrifice," Armin murmured, glancing up at the ceiling. "Order."

A loud crash peeled his skin from his muscles and tore his heart from his chest, only to punching it back into his stomach. He might've broken his back twisting to face the wall behind him, staring with wide eyes at the window that was now bare to him, the painting of Isaac and Abraham lying on the floor on its side.

He pushed himself to his feet, tilting his head. Sacrifice. Order. Nature. Fuck? This was so weird.

When he wandered to the window, he saw into Mikasa's room. Her closet door was open. It hadn't been the last time Armin had checked, had it?

God fucking damn it, was he going to be _that_ stupid kid in horror movies?

Wait. He already was.

Oh well.

Armin went into Mikasa's room, nudging the door open and glancing at her mirror. She'd taken down all the pictures and decided to decorate the walls with them instead. Armin shivered. The room was even colder than the rest of the house. Was this where that little boy hung out, then? Mikasa's room?

"Hello?" Armin felt like an idiot. This was the worst thing to do in a situation like this. He had the urge to call Eren's name. But he knew it wasn't Eren. "Mind if I come in…" Armin fingered at a glass ballerina figurine sitting on Mikasa's dresser. "Or… something…?"

No reply. Great.

Armin hadn't been in Mikasa's room for a while. He considered for a moment that he was intruding. To make himself feel better he began opening her drawers, tugging out comfy clothes she could wear when she was released from the hospital.

As Armin shuffled through her clothes, he found himself not really looking for an outfit for her, but searching. His suspicions got the better of him. He slammed a drawer shut and started on a new one, his jaw tight and his breath short. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be this person.

What was he even looking for?

"Nice," Armin muttered as he unfolded a gun from a sock. He folded it back up and stuck it where he'd found it. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, slamming another drawer shut and leaning back on the heels of his hands. He was missing something.

Mikasa, Mikasa. She didn't just leave things lying around, but she wasn't meticulous like Armin. So where would she hide something?

He leapt to his feet. He ran to her dresser, lifting Mikasa's ballerina figurine and setting it aside. There was a square wooden jewelry box beneath it. He dragged it closer, and hesitantly opened the lid. He held his breath as he peered inside it, and realized he'd done it.

He pulled a folded up scrap of paper from beneath the tangled vines of gold and beads and silver and pendants. She didn't have much. They were mostly gifts.

Armin unfolded the paper carefully, his heart thundering in his chest, and he could hear a pedal being pushed, echoes of notes bleeding into new ones and it was all a mess of melodies that pounded and stuttered.

The handwriting was messy and thin.

_I can't do this anymore_, it said. _I can't do this. I can't live like this. I'm done. Good fucking bye_.

Armin blinked rapidly. He turned the note over, but that was all.

It wasn't Mikasa's handwriting. Hers was thin, but neat and easily recognizable by the swoop of her m's and r's, which were perpetually uppercase. This handwriting was rapid and sharp, lowercase everything. Blots of ink stung certain letters, staining the mouths of n's and v's and y's. Whoever had written this had been in a hurry. Or, maybe, in distress.

It wasn't Eren's handwriting. It wasn't Mikasa's. So… whose was it?

Something sailed past Armin's head and collided with the wall, a soul crushing bang that rocked the entire room and left a dent in the sheetrock as a faded red ball dropped down onto the dresser and knocked over the glass ballerina, whose pretty face caved in and smashed into pretty painted pieces.

He whirled around, his heart thudding inside his throat. In the doorway of the open closet, a man stood.

He was soaked head to toe.

Red, red, red, so sickeningly red.

Armin swayed. He could see the man's eyes beneath the gore. They were shadowy and emptied of life.

He opened his mouth, and Armin saw his gleaming white teeth beneath the streams of blood.

"Get out," he said. His words shot through Armin's skill like two bullets scrambling his brains. He didn't move.

The bloodied man cocked his head. Armin's eyes widened as he flickered, and appeared very suddenly before him, the stench of something rotting burning his nostrils. The blood was caked to the man's skin, and dirt was smeared across his neck and legs and staining whatever clothes he might've been wearing, which were now torn and ragged.

"Get out," he said again, this time in a harsher voice, and the sound was splitting. Armin didn't know what was happening, but he felt it like he felt thunder in a storm. It ran him through, and caught in his lungs.

"No," he blurted, clutching the note to his chest. The man's eyes flashed, and he flickered again. For a moment, the blood disappeared. For a moment he looked a little lost and confused.

He slapped Armin across the face.

Backhanded him with a bloody fist.

Armin felt it.

Blood ran hot down his cheek, and unable to contain his terror any longer, Armin buckled. He screamed.


	8. Chapter 8

**the girl who does not know herself**

The one thing Eren and Armin had been in their childhood for certain was independent. They'd run across their town and torn it up on their own terms, never once faltering, never once scared. Armin knew he'd lost that confidence someone along the way of growing longer limbs and losing a friend. He was saddened immensely by the idea that he might never be that little boy again, the one that whispered ideas into someone's ear and watched them unfold into grand catastrophes. He'd enjoyed it. Being a carefree, genius child.

Before Mikasa, they'd roamed without purpose. Eren wanted to find things, to know things, to understand. Armin was just as starving for information, so they ran and hunted for interesting little facets of knowledge to keep them sated. At one point they'd been trying to find a legendary dagger that had been lost in the woods some few centuries back, something to do with sacrificial offerings that no one actually believed. But they were told the stories anyway, because what child didn't like a spooky tall tale about a haunted town?

"What d'you think we should do with it?" Eren asked, climbing onto a big rock and then grasping a branch above him, swinging idly to and fro. "When we find it? Bring it to the police?"

"What would the police do with an old dagger?" Armin had kicked a stone over, watching little ants squirm in fright as their home was disturbed. "I say we keep it or give it to the Shiganshina Historical Society."

"Eugh," Eren moaned, dropping down to the ground. "My dad's part of that."

"Then maybe we should give it to him?" Armin offered as Eren passed him by. "What'd we do with an old knife anyway?"

"Well, I don't know!" Eren puffed out his cheeks indignantly. "I just don't like the idea of my dad getting it. He'd probably just hide it in the basement with all of the other cool stuff he collects." He rolled his eyes, and he shoved his tiny fists into the pockets of his jacket. "Crap, it's cold. Are you cold?"

"I'm okay…"

Eren sniffed, and he shrugged. "I guess we should head back, though," he said. "I've got my piano lesson and my ma, she'll…" Eren grimaced very suddenly, his face twisting in terror. "I really don't want to make her angry."

"I can't imagine your mother angry," Armin had laughed, bumping into him as they attempted to find the dirt path once again, the bumpy terrain of the forest causing Armin to shift and slip. Eren grasped his arm very gently and led him along a steep slope.

"She's like," Eren sighed, "really, really scary. Really scary. Don't ever make her mad, okay?"

"Okay, then."

"Where d'you think it'd be, anyway?" Eren craned his neck to look up at the sky beneath the swollen canopy of red leaves. Autumn had fallen upon them in a swift, breathless motion of wind and frost. "An old knife probably wouldn't be just lying around just anywhere, like people had to be smarter than that way back when, right?"

"I'm not sure," Armin said. "But I think there would be an alter, or something, you know? That kind of thing. Maybe the dagger would be there."

"We'll find it tomorrow," Eren said firmly, stretching his arms above his head. "Definitely!"

"Yeah!" Armin agreed, though he didn't truly believe it.

They found the path and skirted alongside it. Eren plucked up a stick and swatted Armin's hair with it, his eyes bright and challenging. "Let's play pirates!"

"Eren," Armin said, holding his hands up in surrender. "You have piano. Remember?"

"Yeah… but still!" Eren grinned and he kicked another stick into the air, catching it and shoving it in Armin's face. "Just a quick game!"

"You know pirates aren't good people, right?" Armin held the stick uncertainly in his hands. "They pillage and burn and steal. Not nice."

"We'll be _good_ pirates!" Eren raised his pretend sword into the air, stabbing at the sky. "We'll be like, like Robin Hood pirates!"

"Eren, we have to go home…" Armin peered up at the sky. It was getting very late, and the clouds were dyed yellow and red and a pink-scorched-brown.

"We'll get home in time, okay?" Eren looked a little irritated, and he swung his twig. Armin shrieked, ducking and dropping his stick, stumbling back. Eren stopped, looking confused. "Armin, I don't think you get the point of the game."

"I don't want to fight you," Armin had mumbled, rubbing his dirty hands on his jeans. "Let's not play pirates. Let's just go home."

Eren stared at him for a long time, and in the sinking, burning sunset, the light dying from the sky and shadows sinking through the trees, he looked sorrowful. "Okay, Armin," he said, dropping the stick. "Let's go home."

It was a relief to say the least, but Armin now felt guilty for manipulating Eren into doing exactly what he wanted. It wasn't fair. All Eren had wanted to do was play, but Armin had to be the president of the No Fun Club. No play pretend for him.

They hurried through the woods, jumping over rocks and overturned trees, listening to the distant roar of the river as they neared its bank. They hurried past a dilapidated old shack, sounds of wind and water and distant tires scuffing roads pounding inside their brains as twigs and leaves crunched under their tiny feet. Eren pulled him along, his determination forcing him forward while Armin kept back, watching with careful eyes and listening with careful ears.

"Did you hear that?" Eren asked suddenly, pausing mid-step. Armin had not. He'd been focused on getting back to the road before Eren got in trouble. He turned around, squinting through the dim light, but only seeing the twisted silhouettes of trees and the old shack in the distance.

"What?" Armin asked, peering at his friend curiously.

"I…" Eren leaned back, looking startled. "Crap. I dunno. It sounded like, like, um…" He snapped his fingers impatiently. "A jackhammer? I dunno."

"A jackhammer?" Armin tried to listen further, but the wind was stinging his poor little ears, and he didn't like it. He shook his head. "No, I don't hear it."

"Huh." Eren tilted his head back. The wind beat at his hair, thick brown strands fluttering playfully around his cheeks and curling across his bold green eyes. "Maybe I'm wrong."

"Yeah, maybe—" Armin cried out in alarm as Eren started forward into a sprint. "Hey! Eren, come on!"

"I'm just gonna check it out for a sec, okay?"

"A sec. You think I actually believe that?" Armin scowled, his fingers clenching at his side. "Eren!"

"One sec!" He disappeared amongst the trees, his green hoodie blurring amongst the shaky branches and shadowy bark. Armin groaned, standing awkwardly by himself near the outskirts of the forest, and he stamped his foot impatiently. He didn't understand why Eren was so stubborn.

"Eren!" Armin bellowed through his hands. Nothing. He shook his head furiously. If Armin just stayed and waited, Eren would find him there. But if Armin left…

He toyed with his hair, squinting through the shadows and the streaming red sunset, and he huffed. He hated waiting. He wanted to go after Eren, but if he didn't find him, then what? He'd be lost in the forest after dark, and that'd be horrible. So Armin decided to do something that he instantly regretted.

He left.

He didn't go very far of course, he kept to the outside of the forest, peering into the trees for any sign of Eren's green hoodie, but he could not bear to stand in the same place for too long, and he could not fathom going deeper into the woods when he could hardly see where he was stepping. There was a road beside the trees, so he paced a strip of it anxiously, going into the woods and coming back out in a daze, utterly trapped in his own terrible mind. He whistled, but no one replied.

"Eren!" Armin called, entering the forest. No one answered. He left the forest, standing on the edge of the road and breathing heavily. What if Eren got lost in the dark? Crap. Crap! "Eren!"

But Eren wasn't responding to his name.

What could Armin do?

He stood on the edge of the road, and he heard the distant scrape of tires against asphalt. He squinted, and he could see the distant haze of headlights. He shook his head. It was a terrible idea. It was mean, and it was dangerous.

He turned his head, and he screamed as hard as he could, desperate for his friend to just answer, just once, "_EREN_!"

He gave it ten seconds. And then he ran into the road.

Firstly, it was still bright enough that he knew the driver would be able to see him. He wasn't trying to get hit. He didn't think he would. Secondly, Armin was angry at Eren for running off and angry at himself for not following. This was a hasty way to retaliate at both of them.

Armin made a show of it. He screamed.

His little voice echoed off the trees and bounced shrilly into the dulling red twilight. The scream was coupled by the blare of a car horn that shook the earth and the sky, and he stumbled back and back and back and back as tired screeched, and in terror of his own mortality, Armin tripped onto his back, struck by how awful he was. His palms scraped painfully against the road, and he gasped and shook and shielded his face as the car swerved to miss him.

He was crying when Eren's voice finally broke through the trees, panicked and pleading, "Armin!" He appeared from somewhere in the shady woods, tripping over himself to get to into the road. He looked frantic, panicked, and furious beyond belief. "Are you okay?" He grabbed Armin's arms, kneeling beside him and staring at his tearful face. "Are you okay? What the heck happened, I was just… I wasn't even gone that long, what the heck, Armin? Armin?" He glanced at his bloodied hands, and he cradled them gently. "Can you get up? I'm gonna take you home, okay? Okay?"

Armin nodded hurriedly, as if in a daze, but truly not trusting his voice to not give away that he'd done this intentionally to draw Eren out of the woods.

A door slammed. Armin jumped, and he clung in terror to Eren's sweatshirt, hiding his face in Eren's bony back as he turned to face the driver. His plan had worked, but at what cost? He didn't want to face the person who almost ran him over! He'd just been using them!

"What the hell are you kids doing in the middle of the fu— the freakin' road?" The driver sounded furious, but his voice stayed level. Armin shook against Eren, and he mumbled that they should go, they should really go.

"Why didn't you look where you were going?" Eren snapped back. "You could've killed him!"

"He ran out in the middle of the road," the driver retorted. "Maybe I should've hit him. Taught him a lesson."

"What?" Eren cried, jumping to his feet. Armin squeaked reaching for him feebly. Why had he done this? Why did he have to be like this? Why couldn't he have just gone to get Eren instead of luring him out with a scream? "Are you serious? What kind of person hurts someone to teach them a _lesson_? What is _wrong_ with you? What the— what the hell!" Eren's voice raised and snapped like the wailing wind. "It doesn't matter why he was in the middle of the road, you don't say shit like that, you just don't! You don't do that!"

"Kid…" the guy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Armin squinted at him through the darkness, but he couldn't see his face in the glare of the headlights. "God, okay. Calm down. It was joke."

"You make shitty jokes!"

"Yeah, I know." The man sounded very irritated. "Where the fuck are your parents?"

Red flags raised in Armin's head. He knew not to speak to strangers. "J-just across the street," he gasped. "We were just going home. Come on." He leapt to his feet, tugging Eren's arm. But he wouldn't budge.

"You need to apologize," Eren said fiercely. "Right now. Apologize to Armin."

"That's not necessary!" Armin yanked at his elbow. "Come on… please, Eren, leave this alone…"

"Not until this bastard apologizes!"

"Not fucking likely, brat," the guy said, climbing back into his car. "Listen to your dumbass of a friend and go home."

Armin shrieked as Eren stepped in front of the man's car, planting his hands firmly on the hood.

"Apologize," he snarled.

"Eren!" Armin clapped his hands over his mouth, tasting blood and dirt. _Oh god, oh god_, Armin thought, fresh tears spilling hotly over his fingers. _Please stop, please stop, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to make this happen_. Next time he'd really need to account for Eren's temper before planning.

"Move your ass, kiddo," the guy warned. "Or I'll make you a pancake."

"Like hell." Eren stared levelly into the windshield. "You wouldn't do it. You swerved to miss Armin, you're all talk. So talk. Apologize _right now_!"

"Apologize, Levi," a voice from inside the car said vacantly. "You're the one at fault here, and you know it."

"Tch…" For a moment, Armin thought the man was going to apologize. But instead, he backed up the car, and Eren stumbled as his hands met the air. Armin quickly caught him around the waist before he fell flat on his face.

"Hey!" Eren cried, lurching at the car as it drove around them. "Hey! Stop it! You— you asshole! You can't even say you're fucking sorry? You—! You—!" Armin clung to him as hard as he could, his nails digging into Eren's sides and his heels scraping the ground as he tugged Eren back. "Fuck!"

"Eren," Armin breathed. "He's gone. Just forget it."

"I'm not gonna forget this," Eren breathed. "Not now, not until that mean little guy apologizes to you!"

"I don't care," Armin blurted. "I don't care at all! You're the one angry about it!"

"Because he could've hurt you real bad!" Eren gritted his teeth, and shot him a sharp look. "Do you not care about that at all? You could've died!"

Armin swallowed hard. This was so difficult.

"It was scary," he admitted. "But it was my fault, not his. Just drop it, please, Eren, _please_."

Eren glowered at the ground. He said nothing. He refused to speak again until he told Armin that he was skipping his piano lesson to help him wash the blood and dirt from his skinned palms.

* * *

><p>Armin stood in the bathroom, scrubbing furiously at his cheek. The blood wouldn't go away. It just wouldn't. It was caked on, and he was scared, he was so scared, he was so, so, so scared, and it wouldn't go away, the voice and the face and the feeling of a fist against his cheek. I<em> don't understand, I don't get it, someone please explain<em>, he pleaded to the universe, but received nothing in reply.

Finally he realized that there was no blood.

He peered at his cheek, which was swollen and raw, and he cupped it gingerly.

Unbelievable.

"H-hello?" Armin sniffled, plopping down on the floor and leaning back against the tub. He held his cell phone in his shaky fingers, and a business card sat before him on the stark white tile. "Hange Zoe?"

"_Yep, this is they. Who might this be_?" They sounded just as chipper on the phone. Armin rubbed his cheek, and he glanced at the goosebumps which had formed on his arms.

"It's, um. It's Armin. You gave me your card this morning?"

"_Ah_!" they cried, snapping their fingers. "Right! Armin. I honestly didn't expect you to call so soon. What's up? Anything spooky?"

"Uh…" He was breathless. "You could say that, um… I… I got punched. In the face. By a guy covered head to toe in blood. And I'm really, really scared. I didn't think it'd get this bad, but it's bad. It's so bad. I'm terrified to leave the bathroom."

"_Don't hang out in the bathroom, silly_!" Hange laughed. "_Have you never seen a horror movie before_?"

Armin sat frozen in terror. He turned his head slowly to peer inside the tub, but there was a curtain shielding it from view. _Nope_, he thought. _Not gonna do it. _

It was so fucking tempting though.

The idea was killing him. The thought had settled in his brain, that maybe the man or the child was there, watching, listening, waiting. The fact that it could be, that it might be, was scarier than knowing for sure, and that's what kept him from checking.

"So… where should I go?" he choked. "I don't know what to do, I can't just hang out in my room and pretend it didn't happen!"

"_Please calm down_," Hange said. "_Don't let it get to you. I think you have a real nasty haunting on your hands, and honestly the worst thing you can do is feed it your fears. You seem like a level headed kid. If it's bothering you that much, stay at a friend's for the night_."

_I can't_, he thought. _Mikasa's coming home soon, right? Right? What will I say to here? What do I do? _Truthfully, Armin wasn't prepared for such an encounter. He could hardly stand speaking to Hange. He held his cheek, his eyes watering, and he shook his head.

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."

"_Are you comfortable sleeping there_?" Hange asked gently. "_That's what's important_."

He took a deep breath, rubbing his bruised cheek and feeling that the world was tipping, tipping, tipping upside-down. His heart was pounding very hard and his breathing was still uneven, and no matter what he thought of, not Eren's face, not Mikasa's, not even his grandfather's, he could not shake this feeling that something was watching him, waiting, waiting, waiting.

"I don't think I am," Armin breathed, running his fingers through his hair. "I can't… I can't think right now."

"_Go to a friend's_," Hange suggested. "_I'll swing by in the morning, okay_?"

"Okay," Armin mumbled. "Um, thanks, Hange. Professor Hange. Thank you."

"_Don't even worry about it_," they gasped. "_I'm totally into this! Just try not to piss the ghosty off in the mean time, okay? Sounds like a real nasty piece of work_."

He nodded furiously, wiping his tears against the heel of his hand, and swallowing thickly. "Y-yeah," he said. "Thanks again." He hung up, and the deafening silence hit him like a brick. He shifted uncomfortably against the tile, and then leapt to his feet. No, he needed to do something. He needed to figure something out. He could not sit idly, he could not and he would not.

The first thing he did was steal a pack of cigarettes from Jean, because he needed them more than Jean did, and then he stuffed his laptop into a bag along with some clothes. He then left some more food out for The Captain, and promptly exited the apartment, making certain to never turn his back. He sat down on the rickety metal steps and dug a packet of matches from his bag.

_I'm not going to let this beat me_, he thought, sticking a cigarette between his teeth and striking the match once, twice, thrice until it burst with a spitting hiss. He cupped the flame as he dragged it over the end of the cigarette, inhaling sharply. Smoke burned his tongue, and his eyes watered pitifully as he shook the match out and tossed it aside. He exhaled, the scent of his smoky breath making him sick to his stomach.

Firstly, he called the hospital.

"Mikasa _can't_ come home today," he told them, his voice hoarse and breathless from the smoke. They wouldn't know that, though. "I just walked in on a robbery in progress, okay, it's not safe."

They asked him things. Did he call the police? Had anything been stolen? Was he hurt?

"I'm fine," he rasped, rubbing his cheek and wincing. "Mostly. I got hit, but then they ran off, so I'm just really shaken up, and I'd appreciate it if you kept Mikasa for the night. Is that okay?"

Of course it was okay.

"Just please don't tell her," he sighed. "Please… I don't want to scare her."

Of course it was okay.

Armin took a drag, staring vacantly ahead of him as he hung up. People were too easy, and it made him sad.

Eren appeared beside him. His hair was wet and his cheek was red and glistening.

"What the fuck are you doing," he snapped, pointing to the cigarette. "Do you want to fucking die?"

"Maybe."

"Armin!"

He held the cigarette lazily between two fingers, and blew smoke through Eren's face.

"You're dead," Armin whispered. "You should know as good as anyone. It doesn't matter when or why, I'm gonna die someday either way."

"You need to fucking chill," Eren spat, looking angry and disgusted. "What happened? You've got a bruise. Do I gotta spook someone?" His eyes lit up. "Was it that Jean asshole?"

"No." Armin was almost amused at Eren's blatant issues with Jean. "It was a ghost. Like you. But meaner. And tangible."

Eren stared at him, and it became apparent by his expression that he knew exactly what Armin was talking about. He squinted at Eren's face, and he turned to face him fully.

"Who was it?" Armin asked. "What's up with him? Why was he all bloody?"

"Bloody?" Eren looked taken aback. "What are you even…? Armin, I'm a ghost, but I don't know everything!"

"You know this," Armin said firmly.

Eren sighed, and he leaned forward grumpily. "I just want you to stop investigating this stuff," he muttered. "I want you and Mikasa to be okay. And safe. You'll be safer if you stop."

"Safe from what?"

"I don't know!" Eren jumped to his feet, or at least began to float in midair, scowled down at Armin as his cigarette smoldered. "I don't know, I don't know! I'm just as lost as you are!"

"You're lying."

"Armin…"

"You are." Armin tossed his cigarette over the side of the railing, and he shrugged. "I'll figure it out."

"I really don't want you to."

"Because you'll what? Disappear?" Armin did not look at Eren. He could not bear to look him in the face. "Eren, dead people are supposed to move on. You can't be a ghost forever."

Eren's body flickered violently, an in-between state of golden and gushing. Blood pooled against his cheek.

"Fucking watch me," he spat.

And then he was gone.

Armin rubbed his face in horror of what he'd just done.

He was a terrible friend.

It wasn't easy to put this behind him, to head down the steps and start forward into the street, but he did it. The day was dimming and the road was wet from rain, and Armin watched his feet as he headed downtown, his mind wandering and his heart thudding hard. The world was preying on his anxiety, eating it all up and gnawing him down to the very bone.

He could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He buzzed into an apartment and waited, throwing his hood up as it began to drizzle. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. _Mikasa's gotta be worried about me_, he thought, feeling sick to death of his own insecurities. He was worried about her too. Which was why he didn't think he could face her. Not yet.

"_Yo_," a sharp, low voice came through the speaker. "_Who goes there_?"

"Armin," he said, gripping the strap of his bag. "I almost just got robbed. Can you let me in?"

There was silence. And then, the door clicked, and Armin glanced up at a security camera as he entered the building. It was nice enough, a pretty standard apartment building with one door to the right and then a flight of green carpeted stairs. He wiped his feet at the door and headed up.

The door swung open, and he was greeted by the sharp, clever eyes and angular face of Ymir, her hair loose around heavily freckled cheeks and her lips pulled back into a tight smirk as she watched him.

"Look at that shiner," she said, lifting his chin sharply with her knuckle and turning his face to the side to get a look at his cheek. "Dang. Kinda wanna give the guy who did it an award."

"Next time I see him," Armin said, yanking his chin from her grasp, "I'll give him your address."

"No need to get snippy with me, son." She pursed her lips. "Did you want something?"

"Um…" He shifted awkwardly. "Yeah, actually, I… I don't really… want to…" He bit his lip and tried to keep his tears at bay. She continued to stare, scrutinizing and stolid. She rolled her eyes and stepped aside.

"You can sleep on the couch," she said. "But just for tonight. Got it?"

"Thank you," he breathed, moving past her quickly and clutching the strap of his back with white knuckles. "I'm really sorry to bother you about this, it's just that I don't want Mikasa to know about this, and you don't actually give a fuck about anything."

"True," she said, strolling through the living room and into the kitchenette. He set his bag down on the couch, looking around the apartment curiously. They'd moved a few things around since he'd last been there, but essentially it was still the same cramped little place that really was not big enough for two people. He looked up in alarm as he felt something icy brush his throbbing cheek.

Ymir was pressing a frozen bag of peas to the side of his face.

"Thanks," he mumbled, taking it carefully. "I owe you one."

"I'll hold you to that," she said brightly. He glanced at her, and he wanted to laugh. He'd known what he was doing before coming here, but still, owing Ymir a favor was not something he was particularly keen on.

He sat down on the couch as she disappeared into her room. "So," she called. "Mikasa still out?"

"She's okay." Armin pulled his laptop from his bag and rested it in his lap. He opened it, holding the makeshift icepack between his cheek and shoulder. "Could be better, but I mean, she got into a huge accident. She's lucky it didn't end up worse than it was."

"You really went up with the heroics, didn't you," Ymir stated, exiting her room, a solid deep turquoise hijab half-wound around her head. He never asked her about her habits with wearing it because he knew it wasn't his business, but he did wonder. She didn't like to broadcast her religious views, and it had been a few years before any of them had even known she was Muslim. She kept anything remotely personal to herself. She trusted no one. A good way to live... right?

"I wasn't trying to be heroic," he said, holding his icepack gingerly.

"I'm busting your balls, bro."

He rolled his eyes, and then observed her quick, nimble fingers as she adjusted her hijab, pinning it carefully in place. "Do you mind if I play some music?" he asked.

"As long as it's not dank music, eat your heart out." She turned from him as he hit a button on his keyboard and the steady striking of fingers on keys filled his ears, gentle rhythms melting into rapid shredding of fibers against strings, flaxen bows peeling on cellos and violins. He heard it in his head and felt it in his heart, and he glanced at Ymir. He began typing.

His hacking skills were rusty, but he thought he could at least do this.

"I'll be gone for a bit," Ymir said.

"Okay," he said, glancing up at her and smiling genially. She stared at him with a blank expression. She then left without another word.

Armin took advantage of this.

It was pretty easy to hack into the security cameras, but the trouble was that he was looking for a day from seven years ago. This took a lot more time than he wanted or expected, and he found himself furiously trying to work through the coding, and then searching the video feeds for an hour or so until he finally came across the night Eren went missing.

From there, it was a matter of fast forwarding.

The steady thrumming of strings fell upon his heart, and he could not think or feel with this strumming, thudding, screeching, dulling sensation drawing down from his nape to his tailbone.

He felt an overbearing dread as he came to the morning of that night. The end of the feed.

No Historia.

Her alibi did not check out.

The police had lied for her.

But _why_?

Armin rubbed his face tiredly. He wanted to talk to Eren. But Eren was pissed, and he was dead, and Armin was all alone in Ymir's apartment with a new suspect on the mind. This was so difficult.

If Historia hadn't gone to Ymir's that night, where _had _she gone?

"Oh boy," Armin muttered. He didn't like this at all. He didn't like what this was doing to him. If people would just talk to him, tell him what he wanted to know, then this wouldn't be a problem. But everyone was so damn secretive!

Everyone could be guilty for all he knew.

He exited out of all his hacking shit when the door opened, and Historia walked in with her head bowed. She kicked the door closed, swinging her keys idly as she moved forward. Armin watched her expectantly until she finally looked up. She jumped back, dropping her keys and blinking wildly.

"Armin," she gasped.

"Christa," he greeted.

"What are you doing here?" She glanced aside, clearly confused.

"Ymir is letting me stay here for tonight." He tilted his cheek toward her. "Got punched by someone who broke into the apartment. Didn't really feel safe, so…"

"Oh," she said. She picked up her keys, and she nodded. "Okay."

He looked down. This girl. This vacantly smiling, pink lipped, doe-eyed, perfectly doll-like little _liar_. She had a delicate little face and fluffy hair, dainty hands and a tiny frame, a face that made people want to melt to please her. A tiny voice, a way around problems. She was smart, that was for sure.

She knew exactly what she was.

She must really hate herself.

She must really hate this.

Armin closed his computer, and he rolled his shoulders. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked her nervously. Part of him actually cared.

"Oh, no!" She gave him her wide eyes, and her big, fake smile, and she shook her head. "No, not at all. I'm glad you're here, actually."

Her voice was sweet, and he felt it like granulated sugar in his mouth, rubbing up against his teeth and decaying the enamel, rotting away gums and flesh until there was nothing but porous, yellowed husks.

He smiled at her. "I really don't mean to intrude," he murmured.

"It's fine."

He glanced at her.

She was the sweetest looking snake he'd ever seen.

"I need a drink," he declared, setting his laptop aside. Her eyes brightened a bit, and she tossed her bag onto a couch.

"Hold on," she said, waggling a finger. "I've got some whiskey."

"Oh yeah?" He twisted in his seat to watch her as she stood on the very tips of her toes to reach a cabinet. "You have a secret stash?"

"Not so secret." She pulled the bottle out and lifted it up high above her head, smiling at him while cocking her hip and letting her hair pool over her shoulder. "Ymir knows about it, she just doesn't touch it."

"Hard to believe she's so immaculate." Armin cleared the couch of his stuff as she set two shot glasses out on the coffee table and plopped down beside him.

"I always tell people Ymir is not what they expect," she sighed, twisting the cap of the bottle. "No one listens." Armin watched her tip the bottle, pouring a light, transparent liquid into each glass with great ease. Perhaps she did this a lot.

"I'm starting to understand that people can be intentionally deceiving," he said, taking his glass. He smiled at her brightly while she averted her gaze, smiling so wanly that he could feel the gears in her head turning. "Well, to life, I guess." He tipped the glass back, and the whole of it in a great gulp. The taste of it left him grimacing, and he felt it in his veins, shuddering through him and running coarsely like a livewire. God, he hated alcohol.

Historia took her own glass and shot it back, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her lips together thinly. "To life," she murmured. She slid her glass back onto the table. "How are you, Armin?"

"You really want to know?"

She tilted her head, and she shrugged meagerly. "Yeah, kinda," she said.

He inhaled sharply. "Well," he said, glancing up at the ceiling. He laughed. She laughed too. They were empty people. Empty people with empty words and empty hearts. "I'm scared to death. All the time. I feel like something is really, horribly wrong, you know?" He stared straight into her eyes, and let his face crumple. "I don't know. I'm just really scared."

"Oh." She tucked her pale hair behind her ears, and he could see it in the way she shifted. The way her big eyes fluttered closed and open, the darting motion of her gaze. Yes, she was nervous, and she was scared too. "I'm sorry, Armin. I know this is difficult. I hope you… find Eren soon."

Empty words for empty people.

He poured them both another shot.

"What would you do?" he asked her as she took hers without comment, shaking her head furiously as the spike of alcohol hit her hard, shattering her composure. "If it were Ymir missing, not Eren, would you be searching for her? Would you be doing what I'm doing?"

She stared at him. She poured herself another shot.

"I don't know," she said. She threw her head back as she drank it. This time she didn't shudder. Her true self was showing. Christa was peeling away by the pretty seams, stained strings snapping and makeup smearing, and the grimy truth came to surface with every word she spoke. Armin took his own shot, and it sloshed on his tongue and scorched his throat.

"Yeah," he said huskily. "I don't know either. It's the worst feeling in the world. Not knowing a goddamn thing."

She looked at him. Her eyes were empty and glassy and gauzy. "Isn't it?" She sniffed. "I don't suppose I know anything at all."

"Me either."

"We must be birds of a feather." She eyed him uncertainly, and poured them both another shot.

"Like a murder of crows," he said flatly, taking the shot from her and throwing it back. At this point, he felt nothing.

She did not respond immediately, and instead poured herself another shot. This could end really badly. Really, really badly. Armin was aware. They were both terrible people, and alcohol made them do terrible things.

He'd risk it.

"You don't like alcohol," she said, her gauzy stare burning into his eyes and igniting some semblance of disgust within him. Not entirely at her, but at him as well, at them both for this and that and them and then.

He wanted to laugh.

"Nope," he said. She offered her shot out to him, and he took it, tossing it back and pressing his lips together thinly as he felt everything in him fade away and his logic take the front seat, his filter collapsing and his heartbeat thrumming in a dull monosyllabic dirge. "I hate it. It's terrible."

"Isn't it?" She poured herself another shot in his glass. "So why did you suggest drinking, Armin?"

"Oh, you know." He tilted his head at her as she threw her glass back, swallowing hard and holding it gingerly in her perfect, white little fingers, whiskey glistening on her upper lip as she parted them both coyly, her eyes searching his face emptily, knowingly, dazedly, severely. She was intoxicated, and not only from the liquor. "I thought it best not to be sober for this."

"You can get drunk?" She let her eyebrows raise and her voice heighten. Teasingly. As though that meant a thing.

"I know, it's very alarming." He rolled his eyes. "Tell me, how does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"Being so," Armin said, taking the bottle by its neck and pouring her another shot, "utterly," he poured himself another as well, his words punctuated with a chilly bite upon the air, "_empty_."

For a moment, her cloudy blue eyes widened, and he almost took her for being hurt. It amused him.

She brought the shot glass to her lips, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she lifted and dropped her head.

"Well you'd know, wouldn't you?" she retorted. She flung her head back and emptied her glass, squeezing her eyes firmly shut.

He couldn't really deny that.

"You've got your act down well enough," he said. "You could fool anyone, really. But what I don't understand is… why? Why are you such an indomitable liar, Historia?"

She cracked open one eyelid, and she leaned forward. "You called me Historia."

"I did."

"Why?" She did not seem angry or sad. She seemed utterly emptied of all emotions. He felt that. He concurred.

"Because that's your name."

"How did you know it was my name?" She stared at him, and he stared back. This was a war of words and wonders, and he would win. He would he would he would.

"Historia, I used to make a living off dealing information," he reminded her gently. "You think I didn't know your real name?"

"You're a bastard."

"You're a bitch," he replied in kind. "A lying little bitch."

She straightened her shoulders and she lifted her chin. She was defying him with everything left in her. Which, truthfully, was very little.

"I may be a liar, Armin," she told him coolly, "but so are you."

"Have I ever pretended not to be?" He pulled his feet up onto the couch and hugged them to his chest, peering at her with large eyes beneath his fringe of unruly blond hair. "I don't hide behind a mask, I merely avoid letting how monstrous I am show. You? You're nothing. Completely fake. Your very life is a lie. You're a pathetic, toxic, empty little liar. Nothing more. Nothing less."

She turned from him. Her eyes were glistening. She poured another glass, and this time she stuck it in his face, forcing it upon his lips.

"Yes," she said absently, "tell me more. Coming from you, that means so very, very much. You realize you just described yourself, don't you? Tell me again how terrible I am. Or is it my turn?" She did not tip the glass back— she was not so bold. So he did it for her, and found that he could no longer taste the lighter fluid he was ingesting. "You're a coward. You run from all your problems, worse than me, you run from the things you've done, the people you've hurt, you avoid the messes you've made and pin them on others, you act as though you're guiltless when you're awful, awful, _awful_." He pried the glass from his lips, and he felt tears stinging his eyes. They watched each other dully. "See? You know it."

"I deserved that," he said simply. "But it doesn't change a thing. You're still a liar."

"So are you."

"I need answers," he whispered, "I need to know, I need to know, I need to know what happened that night, and I know you know!"

She exhaled sharply. She tossed her glass onto the table, and it skidded a little as she readjusted herself on her side of the couch, sitting placidly on her knees. "What night?" she asked, tapping her chin. "I don't seem to recall—"

"Bullshit," he snapped at her. She glanced at him, and dropped her hands into her lap. She looked a little remorseful, but mostly languid. She closed her eyes, her shoulders squaring. "You know what I'm talking about, Historia. No more lies."

"No more games," she replied.

"I'm not playing. This is as straightforward as I can possibly be. Why did you lie about that night?"

She rolled her eyes upward, pressing her plump pink lips together, oh so innocently shrugging and sighing and shaking her head. "Armin, you make zero sense," she said.

"I'm asking you." He ran his fingers through his hair, his throat aching terribly and tears trembling at the corners of his eyes. "I'm just asking. I won't tell the police, I just want to know."

"Why does anyone lie?" She eyed him sharply. "Why do you lie?"

He had no answer for that.

He avoided the question.

"I feel like I'm missing something," he said, rubbing his head. She scoffed. "Honestly. I feel like I'm missing part of myself, and this investigation is what's pulling me apart. Help me."

"I'm nothing, remember?" She sniffed, and she tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Besides, I don't care."

"Living in apathy won't help you," he whispered.

"No."

"You're probably an alcoholic," he admitted, watching as she poured herself another shot.

"I think you're trying to poison me." She lifted her glass eyelevel between them. She handed it to him. "Drink up. You need it more than I do. Maybe you'll remember. Maybe you'll forget."

"Now you're just fucking with me."

"Is that not what you've been doing to me the past… half an hour?" She rested her head against the back of the couch, slivers of golden hair pooling across her nose and mouth, blue eyes large and glued to his face beneath the yellow waterfall. "Enlighten me. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"You're the psychology major."

"Would you like me to psychoanalyze you, then?" She did not move, her face half buried in the couch's back. "That might take awhile."

"You're sassier than I thought you'd be drunk."

"You're more of an asshole than I imagined either way." She squinted at him, and her eyes were brimming with tears. "I might puke on you."

"I'd deserve it."

"Do you really want to know why I lie?" She pointed at him. "No. You just want to make yourself feel better. No. You're trying to make yourself look better. No. Let me tell you something. It doesn't work. You're ugly on the inside and rotting from the heart. We're birds of a feather, huh? A murder of crows." She laughed. "I don't like myself. I don't like you. I don't like anyone, not even Ymir sometimes. I don't know or care about anything. But it could be worse." She lifted her head, and she smiled at him tremulously. "I could be you!"

The door opened, and both Armin and Historia jumped, grasping each other firmly in shock as they watched Ymir walk in with her eyes moving from them to the half empty bottle of whiskey.

"Wow," she said. She kicked the door closed. "Looks like a party. Why didn't you invite me?"

Historia's eyebrows furrowed, and Armin had to think for a second, because he was a little out of it, but Ymir did not drink alcohol, he knew that, he knew that, he knew that, he knew that. So he was very confused when she leaned over the coffee table, plucking the shot glass from his hand and pouring it up to the brim. She smiled at him sweetly.

She splashed it in his face.

"That's a nice look on you," she said, slamming the shot glass down, the neck of the bottle still firmly in her fist. "Really. It brings our your eyes. Look how red they are."

Historia giggled.

Ymir beamed at her. "And you!" she gasped. "My darling girl."

She stretched her arm out and tipped the bottle of whiskey over Historia's head, dumping the contents of it into her pretty blonde hair. It dribbled fast down her face, into her eyes and gaping mouth.

"Let me break it down," she said once the bottle was empty. "You two liars, you're either gonna clean this up and wash yourselves while I go to bed and wake up with an alcohol free apartment, or you little vipers can go find some other sucker to bunk with tonight. Talk amongst yourselves. Pick each other apart some more, make out if that's what y'all are digging right now, _c'est la vie_, I'm going to sleep, goodnight, tiny monsters, destroy yourselves or don't."

She strode away, unpinning her hijab and whistling as she went.

Armin rubbed his stinging eyes. Historia couldn't even see through all the alcohol, she was digging the heels of her palms into her eyes and breathing heavily.

"Oh," she mumbled. "Oh, she must've heard, oh no, oh no, oh no."

"Calm down," Armin whispered, touching her shoulder awkwardly. He was not sober enough to be kind. "Let's just do what she said to do."

"She heard me, she heard me, she—!" Historia sounded hysterical, and Armin quickly got to his feet and ran to the kitchenette, grabbing a towel from the handle of the stove and rushing back to Historia's side, throwing it over her head and dabbing her face gently. "She—! She—!"

"She's not going to hate you over something like that," Armin murmured. "You need to calm down. I promise, she doesn't hate you nearly as much as you hate yourself right now. Stop."

"But—!"

"I'm sorry I got you drunk," he sighed, prying her hands from her eyes and mopping up the whiskey. The scent made his stomach turn and his nostrils burn. "I was manipulating you from the start, I guess."

"I know," she whispered. "I let you."

That was actually fascinating.

What a bizarre girl.

He imagined what it would feel like if Eren had done what Ymir had just done. Called him a liar and a snake. Armin supposed he'd feel like scum too, if that were the case. He lifted Historia's chin and wiped her cheeks free of liquor. He was too far gone in his empty, drunken state to feel sorry for what he had done to her, but he understood that it had been wrong, and he regretted it.

"Birds of a feather," he said. "Right?"

She looked at him. Both stares were as empty as the whiskey bottle sitting so innocently on the table beside them.

* * *

><p>"Mikasa."<p>

He'd knocked at the door, but she had not stirred until he had said her name. Immediately she jolted awake. Jean had gone home sometime during the night. Armin wondered if he'd have any paranormal experiences, or if the hauntings were just reserved for Armin. In that case, he probably would need to talk to Historia more often. As a psychologist, not a shitty drinking buddy. He was pretty sure they were okay though.

She squinted at him, and she shifted in her bed. "Hey," she murmured, rubbing her eye with a bandaged fist. "Hey."

"Hey back." He sat down tentatively on her bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling his feet up beside hers. "Jean went home?"

"Yes." She blinked slowly. "Um, I told him to. Armin, where were you last night?"

Sunlight pooled through the window, setting her eyes aglow and making them look like molten silver, which was beautiful and startling. Mikasa was the most beautiful person he knew. It pained him to see her in such a weak state, cuts and bruises and burns and bandages adorning her like baubles and jewels.

Truths sat on his tongue.

Lies were expelled like smoke.

"I was with Annie," he said.

"With… Annie?" Mikasa looked alarmed. She straightened up. "Wait. _With_ Annie, or—"

"We were just hanging out," he said. "Friend stuff. Nothing more than that."

Why not tell her about Historia, Armin? Why keep her out of the loop?

Why keep lying, you fucking dirty lying coward?

He didn't even know anymore.

"What happened to your cheek," Mikasa asked sharply, grasping his chin between her thumb and forefinger and jerking it to the side to get a better look. "Armin, who did this?"

"I just hit my face, that's all."

"Armin, stop lying to me." She jerked his face back, scowling at him until he felt the guilt really coil within him.

He was a despicable person.

"Mikasa," he said, taking her hands in his and squeezing them tightly. "Who's Levi?"

And all at once, she seemed to turn to stone. Marble or bone, she was whittled and carved, stiff and frozen in a perfect way, perfectly perfect of course, perfectly perfectly perfectly perfect.

He was really fucking hungover.

"Levi," she repeated. It was a whisper. All at once, her stone features crumbled into dust. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Does that matter?"

"You're making me angry, Armin." She squeezed his hands right back. "Stop fucking around. No lies. Please, just… not this time. Be truthful just this once."

He wanted to curl into her arms and cry and sob and beg for her forgiveness.

"Some professor from Trost told me," he answered honestly. It felt good. Relieving. Yes. Truths were good for the soul. They were clean and light.

"When did you go to Trost?" She leaned back, looking a little appalled. "Armin, what have you been doing?"

"I didn't go to them, they came to me," he sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. He'd showered the previous night to rid himself of the whiskey smell, but his vision was still swimming and his head was aching dully from the aftereffects of being the scummiest person alive. He hated alcohol. He hated himself. These were things that came to light when he allowed himself to be terrible. "I don't know, they gave me their card. Um…" He searched his pockets quickly, and yanked the business card from his pocket. "They're a paranormal investigator."

Mikasa took the card, glancing at it with quick, clever eyes. "Hange Zoe," she said. She stared at the card for a little while more before resting it in her lap. "I feel like I've heard that name before."

"They said they knew Levi," Armin said, leaning forward. Mikasa refused to meet his eye. "The question is, who is he? You clearly knew him. What was his deal?"

"Armin," she sighed, running her fingers through her hair. It was wavy and limp on her bruised, battered cheeks. "Why can't you just leave well enough alone?"

"Mikasa," he replied, smiling at her wanly. "Come on. You know me better than that."

And she smiled back, a disbelieving smile crawling onto her lips, because yes. She did. She knew him too well, and she knew he wouldn't back down. "Oh," she said, shaking her head. "I hate you."

"Now who's the liar!" He laughed as she threw her pillow at him, swatting him playfully over and over in the chest and on the head until he hooked his arms around her waist and laid down beside her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I surrender!"

She laughed, and it was such a strange, vibrant sound. He wanted to bury his face in her side and forget everything, forget Eren and Historia and Kenny and the whole wide world, and just curl up beside her so that nothing could ever hurt him ever again, not a death not a breath not a speck of dust falling through a shaft of light.

But he could never forget Eren. He could never, no matter how terrible he was, he could never abandon him, not truly, never truly, and it hurt him to know that Eren was gone, that Eren was dead and gone and rotting.

And Armin's goal was to make his soul disappear as well.

What kind of monster was he?

"Levi was my cousin," Mikasa whispered into Armin's hair. He'd rested his head against her collarbone and listened to the steady drum of her heartbeat.

"Was." Armin closed his eyes as she drew her fingers through his hair and pulled it back from his cheeks, smoothing it and stroking with a motherly hand, her touch tender and her smile loving. Armin listened to her heart, the thud and the crash, and he thought that if his heart breathed stringed instruments, she was all percussion. He heard her heartbeat and saw the clap of a hand against the skin of a drum, dust and fingers flying through the air in a rapid _thump-thump-thump_.

She took a deep breath, and her chest expanded against his cheek.

"He killed himself," she said. Armin sat up straight, pulling away from her to watch her quizzically. "I was seven or eight, I— I was never told the details exactly. I was just told that he died, but everyone said he killed himself. At the funeral— it wasn't even a funeral, really, there wasn't a body or anything, they just… they just had a ceremony. When I went, everyone told me that he did it." She looked at Armin, and she shrugged. "They said he was just the type."

"That's awful," he whispered. Oh, Levi was haunting the apartment, no question. The trouble was, Armin didn't know who he was. The creepy child or the bloody man?

"It was," she agreed. She folded her hands in her lap, and she shook he head furiously. "I never talk about him. I like to forget he existed."

"That's awful too!" He frowned at her sternly. "Mikasa, you shouldn't just forget about him like that. He clearly meant something to you."

"He…" She sighed, closing her eyes. "Oh, I don't know, Armin. It was so long ago. He was such a distant person. I didn't even know him, not really. He came to my house to stay every year for Hanukkah, but he'd never really interact with anyone, and I just… didn't understand him. At all. Sometimes he was normal, and he'd sit down and play with me, but then he'd just become this cold, unapproachable person that I hated to be around, so I avoided him. I don't know, Armin. He was… a mystery to me."

"That doesn't mean you should just forget about him." Armin shook his head. "Especially if he killed himself. Do you think it had anything to do with Kenny?"

"It had everything to do with Kenny," she spat. She was looking at her hands, wringing them anxiously. He placed his palm over her bandaged knuckles, but she did not calm and she did not falter. "They never found a body. I read that somewhere. In a newspaper clipping, or something. Levi was only considered a missing person for about a month, maybe less, before Kenny pulled the plug and had him legally declared dead. I used to imagine that he was still around, still… there, somehow, just… hiding and waiting." She stared vacantly ahead of her, her eyes drooping a bit. "That he got away. I wanted to find him."

"Mikasa…"

She glanced at him. "I was little," she explained hastily. "A foolish little girl who'd just lost her parents. Running away seemed heavenly in comparison to living with Kenny."

He hugged her. He wrapped his arms around her torso and buried his face in her neck, and he breathed into her skin, "I'm sorry. You deserved better. You deserve better." She returned the embrace tightly, resting her head against his shoulder and sighing into his hair.

"I don't know, Armin…" she whispered, squeezing him so tightly his ribs felt as though they were contracting. Suffocation was a death he could accept if it were by her hand. "Do I really?"

"Of course!" He pulled back and held her by the sides of her face, pushing back her hair and searching her expression. He realized that though she did not show it, she was utterly defeated. Something was hurting her. Something was eating her alive. "Mikasa, you're not telling me something."

"Because you tell me everything."

"Mikasa…"

She held his hands and she kissed his nose. He couldn't help but burst into a giggle, blinking rapidly and shaking his head. "You're distracting me!" He waggled his finger at her, and she rolled her eyes. "I just want to know what's bothering you."

"I'll tell you if you tell me," she answered simply.

But of course he couldn't.

How could he tell her that Eren's ghost was haunting him?

Where was he, anyway?

"How about," he said, untangling himself from her wicked grasp, "I go check you out instead?"

"Please."

And so it went. Armin thanked who he needed to thank and beat himself up plenty for making Mikasa stay overnight again when that had been unnecessary. She was more or less okay to walk home, not having sustained any injuries to her legs, which was good. She was happy about that.

"Do you think Eren's still alive?" Armin asked her.

She said nothing. She walked, and she walked, and she walked, and Armin realized that she really was hiding something.

Did she know?

"Mikasa," Armin said hesitantly. He tried to catch her by the elbow, but then he grew terrified of the fact that it could be true. It could be true, and he might not know it.

Suspect one. Kenny Ackerman.

Suspect two. Eren Jaeger.

Suspect three. Historia Reiss.

Suspect four. Mikasa Ackerman.

"I don't know," she said finally. "Eren's… Eren's gone. I don't know what to tell you, Armin."

"Tell me you believe he's alive."

"I can't do that." She looked at him sharply. "You know I can't."

He bit his lower lip, and he wanted to cry.

Eren was dead, and they were broken.

He hated this.

"I just want to know," Armin whispered. "That's all I want. To know what happened."

She took his hand gingerly, her thumb stroking his knuckles in an odd rhythm, and she shook her head. She didn't say it, but he knew. He knew exactly what she was thinking. _You're better off not knowing_.

But why?

Armin saw Hange's car in the lot, and he swore softly. Great. Jean was definitely talking to them. Jean was such a terrible people person, it was really commendable, honestly, like Armin could not understand how one person could have such little tact.

"Armin," Mikasa said suddenly, grabbing his elbow as he started up the metal staircase. He turned to face her, studying her face curiously, but her expression was just as inscrutable as ever. She clung to his shirt with skinny, bandaged fingers, and her eyes were too sharp and too bold. She was carving him up without speaking a word, and he felt her emotion in his soul, her fury and her desperation.

"What?" he asked, bewildered.

She blinked up at him, and took a step so they were eyelevel. "You know you can tell me anything," she whispered. "Right?"

He blinked as will, rapidly, confusedly, a disbelieving smile falling into play on his lips. "I know," he said. He turned from her, and felt that the viper that he was had swallowed his heart whole and left him with nothing inside him but tingling self-doubt and gnawing terror.

She deserved a better friend than a boy whose very breaths were laced with lies.

"Jean!" Armin called as Mikasa opened the door for him.

"Kitchen!" Jean called in reply. He glanced at Mikasa, and he shrugged, moving through the living room and into the kitchen while she shut the door behind them. He found Jean sitting at the table with Hange Zoe, a series of photographs spilt across the table. Jean glanced up as he entered. "You have _got_ to hear this, man."

He took a deep breath. Mikasa appeared at his back, resting her palm between his shoulder blades very gently. "What's all this?" she asked warily.

"You're Mikasa!" Hange leapt to their feet, their hand jutting out and their dark face beaming with delight. "Wow! Wow, I knew you got older, duh, but this is totally weird! I honestly never thought I'd see you again."

"Do I…?" Mikasa leaned back in alarm. "I know you…?" She glanced at Armin rapidly, for reassurance or for an explanation, for anything, for his silvertongue and quick wits, perhaps.

"Hange Zoe," Armin told her gently. "They were a friend of Levi's."

"Oh." Mikasa looked stunned. "Oh. I don't remember you. Sorry, I guess."

"You were just a little kid when I met you," Hange said, waving their hand quickly. "I don't mind a bit. Ah, you're a lot like him, aren't you?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she hunched defensively. "What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

Hange looked alarmed. They held up their hands in surrender, their eyes moving slowly across Mikasa's face, assessing her expression carefully. They smiled brightly. "I only meant you've both got this standoffish atmosphere about you. No big deal, it's probably an Ackerman thing."

Mikasa made a noise at the back of her throat like a growl or a groan, but she said nothing. She kept herself quiet, and she kept close to Armin, her nails digging into his back. She stood as though trying to hide behind him, like a little girl afraid of facing her parents after doing something wrong.

"What have you told Jean?" Armin asked anxiously. He'd been hiding his ghost issues for the most part. He was scared to let some stuff out in the open.

"Oh, I just gave him the basics about what happened to Levi," they said. They looked up at the ceiling. "Which… I should probably tell you too!"

"I already did that." Mikasa glanced at them sharply. "What's this about?"

"You've got a ghost, Mikasa!" Hange clapped excitedly. "A real nasty piece of work, too, a real poltergeist! See, ghosts are normally very self-contained. They don't really care about the living or how the living go about their boring old lives. But poltergeists, all you need is to piss one off just a little tiny bit— disturb their special place, or fuck with something they really loved. And they'll antagonize you until you move out or die."

"That's not reassuring at all," Armin blurted.

"You think Levi is a ghost," Mikasa said slowly, "in my house. Right now."

"You're skeptical." Hange tilted their head. "You've lived here a long time, Mikasa. You must've noticed. This place is cursed. You can taste the haunting in the air, it's so alive with paranormal activity! Can't you feel it?"

Mikasa said nothing. She folded her arms across her chest, and kept herself silent, because… because she had no more lies left to tell. She couldn't deny the ghostly atmosphere. She'd said herself that the place was cursed.

"So you think it's Levi," Armin said, placing his hands on the table. "For sure? The ghost that's been trying to spook me is him?"

"I can't imagine who else it'd be." Hange smiled at him brightly, their eyes twinkling. Armin felt his stomach twist in despair. "Anyway, here are some pictures of him. Before he went missing."

Armin peered down at the photographs, and he felt sick. The man in the photos was small, an unsmiling, gaunt little thing that constantly tried to turn away from the camera to no avail. There was a picture of him in a dog kennel, surrounded by puppies, his head bowed as he knelt and jerked a finger in the face of a pitbull, a dog treat held high above his head. A picture of him with his face half turned away, his middle finger flipped up. A picture of him, much younger, much, much, much younger, sitting with a wan, shocked smile. He was wearing a yamaka, his hands folded on the white tablecloth and a man standing behind him with a big smile. Armin recognized him as Mikasa's father. This, Armin imagined, was almost definitely Levi's bar mitzvah. There was a picture of him with friends, and with family (never Kenny Ackerman, though, Armin just couldn't imagine why), with animals, with no one, and it was astonishing because Armin had no idea who this person was, and it made him feel disgusting to know that he was another ghost in the walls, another pair of eyes waiting for Armin to crash and burn from the shadows.

"Where'd you get these?" Mikasa asked, plucking up the photo of Levi's bar mitzvah. She stared at it for a long time. She'd never gotten a bat mitzvah. He imagined she felt bitter about that.

"A friend of ours kept them," Hange said with a shrug. "Mementos, I guess. Old Kenny, he didn't want any of Levi's stuff. So we went through some of his things and kept the photos we thought were nice. He didn't take very many nice photos, let me tell you. He was a real asshole."

"That's a real nice thing to say about a dead guy," Jean snorted. "Didn't you say not to antagonize the ghost?"

"I'll be fine," Hange told him curtly. "I know how to deal with Levi, dead or alive. Oh, you're welcome to have any of these you want, Mikasa. We stole them from here, after all."

"I…" She was fixated on the bar mitzvah photo. "I never imagined he was ever happy."

"You were really young." Hange looked at Mikasa with sympathy. "You had every right to think that. He was so temperamental, I hardly ever saw him with a smile on his face, but that was just how he was. He was awkward, and weird. We were all awkward and weird, not gonna lie."

"How'd you know him?" Mikasa looked up at them, her eyes wide. "Where'd you meet?"

"A mutual friend introduced us," the replied with a shrug. "I thought he was a little shit at first, but he was really just… ah, he had a hard time expressing himself. Probably Kenny's fault, let's be real."

"Yes." Mikasa set the photo down, her eyes large and distant. "Kenny has a way of doing that to people."

Hange's lips tightened into a grimace, understanding Mikasa's reservations very clearly. Levi must've had a tough childhood.

"So why'd he kill himself?" Jean asked, resting a cheek against his fist.

Hange licked their lips, their eyebrows rising and falling as their eyes rolled. "Well, that's just the question, isn't it?" They clasped their hands tightly together. "Why oh why would Levi ever want to kill himself? He wasn't the type, don't listen to anyone else, his depression was hardly that bad. What drove him to it, then?" Hange tapped their chin thoughtfully. "Hm! I wonder!"

"I don't appreciate that tone," Mikasa said darkly. "You're implying that he didn't kill himself."

Hange's eyes glowed brightly behind their glasses, and they snapped their fingers and laughed. "Precisely!"

"But," Armin gasped, anxiety kicking him in the teeth and forcing him to bite his tongue. "B-b-but… but, he's dead! You said so! He died, and he's haunting us!"

"Yeah." Hange whistled. "Hey, Armin, you've seen him a few times. Tell me where."

"I…" Armin leaned back. "I… oh, I don't…"

"Go on." Hange's eyes were large and beseeching. "Go on! None of us will judge!"

"Okay…" He shifted awkwardly, his breath caught inside his throat. "Well… I saw… a little boy…" He pointed to the cupboard under the sink. "In there. Two nights ago. And… and I saw him again. That night, when Mikasa had her accident." He heard his own strumming heart, fingers delicately drawing down on a chord and then another until the strumming became frantic, and the sound was drowned by the bellow of a piano, the shrill screech of a cello bow's hairs shredding up in fury. "He was in the mirror. He had Jean's light in his hand, in his fist, and he lit it. He lit it, and he dropped the lighter on a puddle of gasoline."

Mikasa stared at him with very large eyes while Jean's mouth hung open. Hange merely looked a little confused, as though he'd switched a word here or there with something in a different language.

"Now that's alarming." Hange scratched their cheek, and they frowned. "A little boy, you said?"

"Yes."

"That's amazing." They reached toward Armin, and grasping his hands tightly, dragging him closer. "Tell me more!"

"Ah!" Armin flushed, and he shook his head furiously. "That's the last time I saw the little boy! I don't even know if it's Levi, it's… a child!"

"Yes, it's a child." Hange released him, and they shrugged. "Ghosts take on different forms depending on their reasons for staying in this plane. Now, Levi had major fucking daddy issues. Not surprising if his ghost appears like a child. He was honestly a fucking child on the inside, not gonna lie."

"Nice." Jean rubbed his face tiredly. "I'm terrified to sleep here now."

"Chill." Hange rolled their eyes. "I'm here to make sure Levi doesn't bite your asses while you sleep. Don't worry. Now, you called me to say that a man punched you, Armin?"

"Really?" Mikasa turned to look at him, her eyebrows rising. "How strange. I thought you hit your face, Armin."

"I did," he said weakly, smiling at her bitterly. "On some bloody guy's fist."

"Bloody."

"Drenched head to toe in blood."

"I want to move," Jean declared.

"Oh, shut up," Armin told him. "You've never seen him."

"Nope, and I don't actually want to." Jean pressed his lips together, glancing up at the ceiling. "Although… it'd make a pretty rad found film horror movie, gotta admit it."

"It'd be for real, though," Armin pointed out.

"Nobody has to know that."

"Ignoring the future Spielberg here," Hange said, "like, for real. Is the haunting really that bad?"

"It is for me…" Armin looked down, and he shrugged. "I don't know."

"Mikasa?" Hange studied her. "You've lived here a long time. Have you ever seen Levi's ghost before?"

She looked at Hange, her mouth parting. And then it closed. And then, she shook her head. She shook her head. She kept shaking her head, and Armin's hand hovered fearfully over her shoulders, his shock keeping him from comforting her. She looked, in that moment, so traumatized that she could not speak or move or even stop shaking her head.

"Mikasa?"

"No," she whispered.

She's lying, Armin thought.

He said nothing.

Hange did not buy it. They lowered their head, gazing at her intently.

"Are you sure?" they asked carefully.

She shook her head.

She shook her head.

"I…" She glanced down at her hands. "I think… you should leave."

"Mikasa!"

"It's fine," Hange said, holding up their hand to silence Armin. "You've been around him a long time, huh, Mikasa?"

She shook her head.

"You know, children really should not be around spirits. It messes with their heads real bad."

She shook her head.

"Spirits aren't lucid, you know," Hange said, gathering their things. "Well, sometimes they are, but a lot of the time they're residual hauntings. The chances of Levi being sentient was slim to begin with. And if he is sentient, the chances of him having any understanding of basic logic is also very slim. He could easily see you with… say, Armin." Hange jerked a finger at Armin's face. "You could just be talking with Armin, and he sees you. Now you've made him jealous. Dead people don't get attention much. And you're the only person Levi has in the whole wide world."

"Get out!" Mikasa was still shaking her head, tears glistening in her eyes.

"I am," Hange said gently. "I'm not trying to make you angry. You just need to be honest."

Mikasa shook her head.

Hange sighed, bowing their head. They glanced at Armin, and they shrugged. Then, without another word, they exited the kitchen. Before the front door shut, they called, "Bye, Levi!"

Mikasa shook her head.

She fell back, colliding with the wall, and she shook so badly that Armin felt nauseated just seeing her in such a terrible, terrified state, her lips parted and her tears streaking her face as she shook, shook, shook her head.

Jean was on his feet, his mouth gaping, and he looked ready to run at Mikasa, but he was hopelessly stuck in place.

"Mikasa," Armin whispered, edging closer to her. Her eyes shot rapidly to his face. She hugged herself tighter, and then squeezed her eyes shut, sliding down the wall and shaking her head. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

She shook her head.

She shook her head.

"I…" she mumbled, shaking her head so furiously that her dark hair fell into her scarred face, a mess of tangled black strands like a nest of feathers. "I… I didn't…" She bowed her head low, and it ceased shaking. She ceased shaking. "He told me not to tell anyone."

Armin felt a chill shoot through him, a sharp, vicious pang of panic and terror.

This thing, this stupid little ghost, had its claws in Mikasa. And Armin had no idea how to make it let go.


	9. Chapter 9

**as much as you can carry**

"What's that on your wrist, Eren?"

He'd been tossing a ball into the air, a large round green ball that went up— and then immediately dropped, gravity clinging to the grooves of its face. He caught it in both hands, dipping forward from the weight. Armin didn't know where he'd gotten it.

"What?" Eren, ever the oblivious, pulled his sleeve back. He spotted the angry, purplish bruise that ringed his brown skin, and his eyelids slid heavily in a half-closed stupor. "Oh. That. Don't worry, I just got my hand caught."

_Yeah, right_, Armin had thought bitterly. They'd been sitting by the bank of the river, a cool, misty summer day, and Armin toed at the mud and the clay that formed the edge of the riverbank.

"Oh yeah?" Armin smiled wanly. "On what?"

"Just like, a wire. Thing. Like, you know what I mean? Yeah." Eren sniffed, rolling the ball in his hand. "Anyways, are you cold? You look cold."

"I'm fine," Armin sighed. He eyed Eren suspiciously, the round faced boy with bright green eyes and a forced smile, and he snatched the green ball from his hand. Immediately he was overtaken by its weight, and he yelped. "Eren, where'd you even _get_ this thing?"

"It's a bocce ball," Eren replied innocently. "I stole it from a big ol' bag of them. In the crawlspace."

"The crawlspace?" Armin had been at a loss. He leaned back, and he gaped at Eren openly. "_Mikasa's _crawlspace? Eren, what the heck were you doing in there? It's so spooky and icky, it's— crap, I don't even know, but I don't like it! Why were you in there again?" Armin stared at Eren's face intently. The boy looked alarmed as Armin's eyes roved back to his bruised wrist. With a sharp intake of breath, he understood. "You sneak into Mikasa's house through the crawlspace. Eren, you're the stupidest, bravest person I know."

"She can't stay there by herself, Armin," Eren gasped urgently, looking terribly remorseful. "She just _can't_! Okay, okay, I know I should have told you. I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to feel like we were leaving you out of something, that's not what it is at all."

"I wasn't feeling that way, actually," Armin muttered, dropping the green bocce ball into the wet, oozing river clay. "Not until you mentioned it."

"Shit," Eren swore. He scooted closer, and Armin glanced at him, feeling furious and uncertain, because he didn't know what was going on, and he didn't know why Eren and Mikasa would keep secrets from him. It hurt. He bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering as Eren touched the back of his neck gingerly, his fingertips cold from dipping them in the water to wash his hands of mud and clay. Armin jumped, and he didn't want to cry over this, it was a silly thing to cry about, but he was upset for reasons he could not explain. Why hadn't they said anything? Why did they never say anything? "Armin, look at me. Please. Hey." Eren's fingers struck him softly very suddenly, dancing from his nape along a vein and traveling to the tender skin beneath his ear, causing Armin to shake and balk and bite his tongue to contain jittery laughter. "Look at me!"

When Armin finally did, Eren puffed out his cheeks indignantly, and he swatted Armin's thick blonde hair from his eyes.

"You are a fucking _moron_," he snapped, his eyes narrowing at Armin's face as he shrunk back, "if you think I love either of you more than the other. Don't be jealous of Mikasa because I sneak into her house, okay? It's not something I actually want to do, it's just… she's scared. Like, really… really scared, Armin. All the time. She doesn't feel safe. That's why I sneak in. So she's not alone."

Armin sat and stared. He felt like such a damn little fool. Of course Eren had his reasons for sneaking into Mikasa's room. Of course. What was Armin even thinking? Of course Eren wasn't trying to leave Armin out. Of course!

He felt sick with guilt.

"Eren," Armin whispered, his eyes growing wide. "What is she scared of?"

And Eren, startled, leaned back. Because perhaps he had not realized what he was revealing with every word he uttered on the subject. He shifted in discomfort. And then, hesitantly, he held up his discolored wrist with all its black and blue and purplish glory, and he sighed. Armin took his hand, pulling Eren's arm closer to his face to examine the bruising closer. Definitely finger marks. It looked like a large hand had taken hold of Eren's wrist and yanked him so hard his skin had twisted angrily in retaliation.

"This needs to end," Armin hissed. "He can't keep hurting you guys! I— I can't stand it, Eren. Please, let's just tell the police. Please."

"And then what?" Eren yanked his hand back furiously. "They'll just take Mikasa away somewhere! Do you think that'll be any better? No! She's not safe with him, but at least she's close, okay? If we tell the police, she'll have to leave, and we won't be able to help her if she's off in Berlin or, or wherever orphans go, I don't know, _America_? Do you really want Mikasa to be sent off to _America_?"

"I doubt they'd send her to America," Armin muttered. "It's more likely she'd stay within the state's reach. And as much as I want her here, she's being terrorized by Kenny! We can't leave this to just chance, Eren. Chance that you'll be there, or chance that it might stop. You love her. So do I. The best thing we can do for her is to _get her out of that house_!" Armin punctuated his fury by slapping the moist clay bank, and he blinked in shock as it spat back at him, red mud slithering down his cheek.

Eren laughed.

He shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm not losing either of you," he declared. "I'll fight off Creepy Ackerman by myself, if I have to. And anyone else who would dare touch my friends. I'd— I'd rather die _myself_ than let anyone take you away from me. Come here, let me get that mud off."

Armin rolled his eyes as Eren dragged him into the water. With a wicked grin, he splashed Armin in the face. The cool water awoke him, made him see things clearly, and he noted the dark circles under his friend's eyes and the way he favored his left side, subtly but truly, and the half-moon shaped welt on his forearm no size bigger than a small coin where a cigarette must've brushed him.

"Eren!" Armin wiped at his eyes, and he scowled up as his friend guffawed.

* * *

><p>The worst thing about not being crazy?<p>

He sorely wished that he was crazy.

When Mikasa was scared, that was it. That was the point where Armin lost hope. The fact that she'd been afraid for— for who knew how long of this ghost of a long dead boy haunting her made Armin sick to his stomach. What the hell was he supposed to do? He honestly didn't know where to go from here. Mikasa was lost, and so was he.

They were utterly hopeless.

Mikasa had gone to her room. Armin had begged her not to, but she'd brushed him aside and gone anyway. A ghost. A ghost. A ghost. He wasn't the only one that saw ghosts. That meant something. Truly, it did.

It meant that Eren was really dead.

All this time Armin had been hoping, somehow, that he was just losing his mind. That Eren was alive somewhere.

This was too cruel.

"Why didn't you say something?" Jean asked quietly. "About this Levi person?"

"I didn't know." Armin was wearing the same clothes he'd worn yesterday. He was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the photographs, and feeling that he'd somehow missed something vital in his analysis. Levi. Levi Ackerman. Mikasa's dead cousin. "I didn't know him, I… I didn't even know if what I was seeing was real, Jean, I just…"

"Why is he being such a dick, though, I mean…?" Jean groaned, and he ran his hands through his hair. "You said he started the fire at the Strip, right? Who fucking does that? To their own cousin!"

Armin scratched at his knuckles nervously. The bandages were still there. He felt sick. Truly. His head was clogged and his mind was foggy. He thought of Eren. Who? Who would? Who could? Who? Ha. Who. Who?

Who.

Who.

Why?

Who?

Who…?

Armin nearly smashed his head off the table in disgust and frustration, he wanted so badly to see his brains smeared on the polished wood, to see nothing but red and to laugh it all away, because who? Who could, who would, why would he, how could he, what type of terrible person could do what had been done?

"He wasn't in control of his actions," Armin murmured. Jean watched him, and there was something in his eyes, clear doubt glowing there. "Look, I know. I know how that sounds, but you heard Hange. Levi's probably not lucid. He doesn't know what he's doing." _Eren does,_ Armin reminded himself. _So what type of ghost is Eren? What the fuck is he haunting?_

"But he killed himself," Jean sighed. "He's here out of his own volition, right? Why the fuck is he so pissy, then?"

"Jean, you clearly have never been suicidal," Armin sighed.

Jean froze, his amber eyes and proud mouth falling in slow motion, and Armin felt his stomach flip in despair.

"And you have," Jean stated in a low, soft voice. He did not ask. He did not pry. He merely stared, and the pity was palpable. Armin could puke right there.

Armin stared at his bandaged hands, and he tried to sort his thoughts, but it was all vague blurs of things he didn't understand, of thoughts and feelings that did not match. He was not a full person. He was a shattered little boy, a mosaic of blood smears and ink, of words and wonders, of screams and echoes. He was made of tempered glass, and he could feel an old maestro's steady hand pluck and twist and dig at his molten skin until his malleable flesh cooled and he resembled the piece of art the world had destined him to be.

He wished someone would stick him in a hearth and let him melt under the flame.

"It's not as bad as you think it is," he whispered. "I have anti-depressants."

"You don't take them," Jean said firmly. "I know, Armin, okay? Stop trying to make it seem like you're fucking fine. You're not. You're… okay, don't take this the wrong way."

Armin folded his hands on the table, flattening his bandaged fingers, and he smiled wanly. "This sounds promising," he tried to joke. But it was a sad and empty sound. Jean stared at him. He took a deep breath.

"For as long as I've known you," he said hesitantly, glancing at him hurriedly as though wondering if it was okay to speak candidly. Armin nodded to him encouragingly. He didn't want to hear it. But he knew he needed to. "For as long as you've been my friend, you've… been totally distant. You're never actually you. If you know what I'm saying."

"Not really…?"

Jean huffed, and he sat up straight, gaining some confidence. "Okay," he said. "Listen. You are a fucking robot." Armin felt a pang in his heart, though he did not know what emotion had struck him. Pain, perhaps. Or fear. Because unlike Armin, Jean didn't hide behind lie after lie after lie just to feel in control. "Don't take that in a bad way!"

Armin stared, his eyes large. He shifted he gaze uncertainly from Jean's face, and then looked back. His brow furrowed sheepishly. "I'm not sure how else I'm supposed to take that."

"Ugh!" Jean slapped the table in frustration, and Armin winced. "No, no, no! I don't want to make you feel bad!"

"Isn't that what this is?" Armin tilted his head. "You call me out on all of my bullshit, I get sad and sick about it, but realize my mistakes, and we're all happy campers again?"

"You know, I thought my sarcasm was annoying," Jean said, jerking a finger at Armin's face over the table. "But you? You're a real piece of work. Bet you were a teacher's pet, too. No one knows just how mouthy you are."

"That's not true." Armin felt like someone had force-fed him a cup of pills, and he was jittery and numb with shock. He didn't like being in this position. It had hurt less when Historia had told him the truth, because Historia was just as disgusting and empty as he was. "Lots of people know. Have you met my friends?"

"Yes," Jean said, his eyes narrowing. "You tend to forget that I'm_ one_ of them."

Armin's stomach lurched. He swallowed thickly. "Jean," he sighed.

"No," Jean said, holding his hand up. "No, you have to listen. You aren't okay, Armin. You lie— all the time, you just… lie, for absolutely no reason! You lie to me, and to Mikasa, and I… I don't know, I'm worried! You lied about not being depressed!"

"I wanted to avoid this conversation."

"Well a lot of fucking good that did," Jean snapped. "Damn it! You're falling apart!"

"You're the one screaming," Armin sighed. "Am I really falling apart?" Yes. "Am I really depressed?" Yes. "Do I really lie to you all the time?" Oh man. Yeah. "Jean, think. Am I the one who needs an intervention right now?"

"I have faith in Mikasa's ability to deal," Jean said sharply. "You? Not so much."

"Your trust in me is truly astounding." Armin leaned back in his chair. He wanted a drink so he could stop feeling so awful, so disgusting, so much like a corpse rotting from the inside out. He wanted to empty himself. Fully. Completely. "Go to hell, Jean."

"You're being super hostile for someone who's apparently super fucking stable." Jean scoffed, and he glowered at Armin. As though Armin could perceive _Jean_ as a threat. Please. "That's what I'm talking about. You're losing it. You're not yourself, and it's scary. This investigation is fucking you up, and this apartment is making it even worse! You've been ignoring all your other class work, pushing people away, lying your way in and out of every situation— Armin, you hardly eat!"

"I eat!" Armin objected in distress. This was something he was fearful of. He ate. He did. He ate. He did! Just… not enough, he supposed.

"You eat the bare minimum of calories your tiny fucking body needs," Jean said flatly.

"Are you a nutritionist now?" Armin rolled his eyes. "Jean Kirstein! The greatest director to ever live, and a private nutritionist on the side. Go figure."

"There you go with that hostility again!"

Armin rose to his feet, shaking his head furiously. "Is it unwarranted? You're attacking me for no reason."

"You just admitted that you've thought about killing yourself!" Jean leapt up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table hard, and the crash resounded across the kitchen. Photographs blew into the air and fluttered sadly to the tile floor. "This isn't unwarranted! This is me worrying about you!"

"I'm not going to kill myself," Armin said calmly. "Calm down. I'm okay."

"You're lying again!" Jean shook his head. "I hate that! I hate that you feel like you need to lie about everything! I'm here because of you, man! I'm here because we decided we were going to investigate this together, but you're hiding so much shit!"

"Mikasa's up in her room," Armin whispered, "dealing with the fact that a ghost has been haunting her for over a decade, and no one's ever been able to help her with that. I don't want you to worry about me. Worry about her. Worry about if she's okay. Because I know she's not. You know she's not. But you're focusing on me, when I clearly don't want to talk about how shitty I am. We all hate ourselves, Jean. Maybe it's a little. Maybe it's a lot." He gripped the back of his seat, his rage making his voice shake. "You have no right to judge me based on how much I hate myself, or how much that hate has evolved. If I lie compulsively, it's a coping mechanism. If I lie intentionally, it's because I'm genuinely trying to fuck with you." He smiled at Jean bitterly. "Don't you hate me too?"

Jean stared, open mouthed, and his rage was just as unsteady, just as palpable, and Armin could taste it in the air, tingeing it red.

Suddenly, Eren appeared beside Jean. His face was warm and brown and kissed by the sun, and his eyes were dull and sad. He stared at Armin desperately. He shook his head.

He stuck his hand in Jean's spine.

Jean buckled, and he gasped, "How could anyone ever hate you?"

Armin's eyes narrowed.

Eren's words fell from Jean's mouth like fat, sad droplets of rain into a puddle.

He realized, hiding his shock, that Eren had just possessed Jean without a thought.

What the fuck was that about?

"Don't give me that bullshit," Armin whispered. "Please. I don't need it."

"Why?" Jean's head tilted, his eyes gauzy and his lips twisting in a sneer. "Because it's a _lie_?"

_God damn it, Eren_. Armin's jaw tightened, and his eyes stung with tears. How cruel. How fucking cruel his best friend was. And the worst part was, it was not undeserving. Armin had it coming. The anger in Jean's voice was real. The disgust in his expression, the horror, the pain, the confusion.

"Stop," Armin whispered. He didn't need this. He didn't understand why Eren was doing this.

"You want me to stop?" Eren's voice bled into Jean's and the ghost boy leaned forward, his eyes alight with fury. "Don't you hate it when you say that and no one listens? Doesn't it hurt?"

Armin stood, his mouth falling open, and tears spilt onto his cheeks as he was hit with the pure, vicious emotion that was flung from Eren's wavering form, from Jean's contorted lips. It hurt. It stung like a slap, because oh, god! It was true! Armin was intentionally ignoring Eren's wishes out of his own selfish need to know everything.

"I—!" Armin didn't get it. Why now? Why was Eren doing this now? "Stop it. Stop doing that." He didn't know how aware Jean was. This was difficult. "Stop."

"You're not listening!" Jean smashed his fist into the wall, and Armin cried out, clapping his hands over his mouth. "Look, Armin. Really look. This is your fucking truth. You want me to stop, but you won't even think for a moment just how I feel about what you're doing! Leave it alone!"

"I can't!" He lowered his hands, his voice cracking across the air in a pitiful breath. "You know I can't!"

Eren tore his hand from Jean's back and he strode forward as Jean rocked and blinked and groaned, his head falling into his hands. Eren stood before Armin his image flickering so violently it made the room spin, and Armin felt sick and dizzy just staring at him, his face tearing from warm and pretty to pallid and drenched, brown and bright to bleached and blood-slick.

"You're a fucking liar," Eren whispered.

"I don't mean to be," Armin gasped, tears flooding his face, and he could hardly see through them, they streamed so heavily. "I don't know what's wrong with me, I… I'm sorry… I can't… I can't stop, not now. Please, you have to understand—!"

"I don't understand at all!" Eren's face crumpled in despair. "Why are you doing this, Armin? Why do you keep pretending?"

"Because I'm a liar, like you said, right?" Armin laughed thickly, vacantly rubbing his eyes on his sleeve. He sniffled, and he sobbed. "G-god! Where did this even come from? What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with _me_?" Eren's rage electrified the very air Armin breathed, and it made him choke. "Did you really just ask that?"

"Armin, what…? Are you crying?" Jean's voice was tremulous, and Armin laughed. He was so fucking out of the loop, it was amazing. And it was all Armin's fault, really. "Did I make you cry? Aw, shit. Shit, man, I didn't—!"

"Can he shut the fuck up?" Eren shot Jean a disgusted look. "I should have knocked him out."

"Eren!" Armin blurted in shock. Immediately he wanted to puke from his slip up, and he wished he could have taken it back, for he saw Jean's face transform, the confusion and alarm there.

"What…?" Jean stepped back, gaping at Armin. "What about Eren?"

"I'm right here!" Eren snapped at Jean, whirling around. "Right here! I just punched your fucking backbone, you chain smoking deadbeat!"

Armin swallowed his desperate pleas for Eren to quit shouting. It'd do him no good.

He took a deep, shaky breath.

"It's fine," he sighed, dashing his tears away. "I needed to cry, I… I'm sorry, Jean. You're right. I'm going to start taking my meds again."

"Liar," Eren snarled, his image blotting away in a wisp and his voice hanging in the air, thick and syrupy and sliding down Armin's throat. He realized, horrified, Eren had reappeared right behind him, and if Eren could breathe, his breath would be beating hotly against Armin's neck.

"Armin…" Jean looked truly sorry. That Armin feel all the worse.

"I'm serious," he gasped. "I'm really gonna take them, and… and I should probably talk to someone. Like, a real therapist. I really need that."

"Yeah, you probably do."

"You really, really do," Eren muttered into Armin's skin. He shuddered, subconsciously rubbing the sensitive skin beneath his ear. "I hate this guy. Why are you friends with him?"

"I'm sorry." Armin felt sick. "I wish… I wish I'd never dragged you into this. I wish I'd never come back here."

And with that, Eren did not reply. He blinked before him, reforming into a full-bodied boy with wide green eyes and parted lips, horror-stricken and hurt.

Fresh tears sprung to Armin's eyes.

Why was Eren doing this?

"Oh," Eren breathed.

Oh.

Armin stifled a shout as he disappeared altogether. He hadn't meant it. He hadn't meant it! He hadn't, he hadn't!

Oh.

He felt so sick.

Armin lurched toward the sink, and he buckled as vomit burned his throat in its violent ascent and splashed into the metal basin. He'd made himself sick from guilt and horror and sadness. Great.

He was so fucked up, he was so fucked up, he was so fucked up.

"Armin!"

He dropped to his knees, heaving and gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs, and he thought he might as well give up. He might as well stop trying. He was useless. This was useless! Eren hated him, and he was dead anyway! What good did Armin do?

"You're right," Armin sobbed. "I'm a liar, and I… I…!"

"Oh my god," Jean exhaled. "No, calm down! I didn't mean to make you upset!"

_What the fuck did you expect to happen?_ Armin bit back, wiping his mouth and hiccupping. His mouth tasted like bile and liquor. He wanted to puke again from the burn of it, the acidic pungency.

"I just…" Armin moaned, covering his face. "I don't know. I hate it. I don't know anything, and it makes me want to peel my face off."

"That's really… really uncomfortable, wow." Jean knelt beside him, his eyes wide. "You say the weirdest things, man. Come on. Get up."

He didn't want to. How did he say that? How did he describe how he was feeling?

He couldn't.

Eren hated him, and the world was going to hell anyway.

Armin shook his head, sniffing and trembling and rubbing his eyes. His nose burned. His head hurt. His heart was battering his ribcage, and he wanted to die. So. What else was new? _I'm sorry, Eren_, Armin thought, his stomach squirming and his heart aching. _I'm so fucking sorry, I should have never… I should have… I should… I_…

His nose burned.

He rubbed it, and he thought. He thought of Eren, and of Mikasa, and of this whole big fat mess. He thought of the lies he'd told, and the misfortune he'd dealt and had been dealt. This was all his fault. He had no one to blame but himself for the situation he was in.

Burning

He sniffed.

Jean sniffed too.

"Hey," he said blankly. "Hey, do you smell that?"

Armin looked up wildly. Burning.

He leapt to his feet, and Jean did the same. He had to think for a moment, because it wasn't processing. Burning? What could be burning? They hadn't cooked anything, had they? Oh crap, had they? Crap! Armin's eyes darted to the stove. Wait. No. No, didn't look like it. Okay.

"Okay," Armin croaked. "What the hell is burning?"

Jean stood beside him, staring vacantly ahead. They glanced at each other.

"Fuck!" Jean ran from the kitchen and into the living room, and Armin followed, feeling a little sick. Jean peeked out the window, and he cried out in terror. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!"

"What?" Armin gasped, his tears drying on his cheeks. "Jean, please don't tell me the garage is—"

"The garage is on fire!" Jean pulled out his phone, his voice heightening in panic. "Yeah!"

And in Armin's shock, he realized. He could see the light of the flames reflecting in the window from below. He backed away slowly. His eyes were wide, and he could taste the smoke in his mouth. In utter terror, he pivoted and ran.

"Mikasa," he breathed, the staleness of bile still clinging to his tongue. "Mikasa!"

He skidded to a stop at her door, and he tried the doorknob, shouting, "Mikasa! There's a fire, Mikasa—!" The doorknob clicked around in his hand. He stared at it as it wriggled. The door was locked. "Mikasa!" he screamed, his heart sinking into his chest as he realized the extremity of the situation. "Open the door!"

There was no answer.

Armin rapped his knuckles against it. Repeatedly. "Mikasa!" He was frantic with his knocking, and he kicked the door, trying to doorknob, kicked the door again, pounded with his hand, with his palm, screaming, "Mikasa! Mikasa, there's a fire, what are you even _doing_? Mikasa!" He was wasting time. What was she doing? "Jean!" He tried the doorknob, and he hissed through his teeth in frustration. "Jean, she's not opening the door!"

But Jean didn't respond. Armin growled and he slammed himself against the door, his palms slapping the wood and stinging from the shock, and he heaved, resting his forehead against it and allowing hopelessness to crawl over him as he slid to the floor, tears once again springing into his eyes. He couldn't leave the apartment without her. He just couldn't.

He was struck by an idea.

"Mikasa…" He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling into his room. He took a deep breath as he faced the painting of Isaac and Abraham, grabbing it by its frame and lifting it from the wall. He wobbled a little, weak and tired and unprepared. He rested the painting on the floor at his feet, and he stared into the two-way mirror.

Mikasa was there. He'd half wondered if she'd left without them knowing, but no. She was right there. Sitting in her closet, perfectly in Armin's view, cross-legged and blank faced. She was not looking at him, but at something else. Armin watched a red ball roll into her palm. He slammed his fist against the wall in fury as she rolled the ball back.

"Mikasa!" he snapped, rapping against the window. "Mikasa, stop it! You could die if you stay in there, do you hear me? Can you hear me? Mikasa!"

But she kept rolling the ball, and it kept returning. A game. An idle little game. She was utterly entranced.

"Mikasa!"

Finally, she turned her face toward the window. The mirror, by her own vision. She blinked rapidly.

The closet door slammed shut.

Armin's blood halted in his veins, ice clinging to his nerves as her scream echoed in his ears.

He snatched the hammer he'd used to remove the painting from the wall, and he smashed it into the window, over and over and over and over until it shattered around him, and he kicked and clambered over the broken glass, not caring one bit about the gashes it left or the tears in his clothing, and he bolted across the room, flinging the closet door open. He coughed a little.

She was not there.

"Mikasa!" He pulled his shirt over his nose. His hand was bloody. He gritted his teeth, and crouched into the closet. He squinted, and he knew. He knew exactly where she'd gone.

Armin was going to die.

He took a deep breath of clean air, and he got down on his hands and knees. The hole that led into the crawlspace was smaller than he remembered, but he still fit. Once inside, it was tall enough that he could stand, and he blinked into the darkness, which was smoky and grayish. He could hardly breathe. He held his shirt over his mouth and nose, and he realized he didn't know where to go because he didn't even know where forward was.

_I'm going to die_, he thought. _Me and Mikasa, we're going to die in here_.

He felt around the sides of the crawlspace, stepping forward uncertainly, and smoke filled his lungs and stung his eyes. This wasn't fair. Mikasa didn't deserve this. Eren hadn't deserved this. Armin… Armin was certain that he had miscalculated somewhere, because for all his despair, he didn't think he deserved to die like this.

"Armin."

His knees buckled. That was Eren's voice.

"Armin, I know where she is."

"Eren…" He coughed, and he leaned against a wooden beam, blinking into the smoke and sighing. "Okay. Okay, just… help me…"

"I need your permission."

"For what?" Armin coughed again, and his voice was hoarse as he spoke. "You want to possess me? Go ahead! You didn't ask Jean for permission, so what the hell does it mat—?" He sunk a little unable to breathe or think or see.

And then he felt an unbearable cold wash over him.

The world went flatly white, and the entirety of his body was numb as he felt himself moving, felt the smoke enter his lungs, but did not feel the need to cough and spit. His eyes were clouded by the image of the darkened sky, and he heard a scream, a terrible scream. Armin knew that scream. He knew it so well. He'd just heard it.

Mikasa.

Armin felt a great, white-hot, blinding pain as his head landed on something hard, and he rolled into a bed full of knives, icy water swallowing his head and gnawing at his neck until it snapped, greenish ice liquified and clogging up his throat and lungs.

Mikasa's scream.

Mikasa had been there.

Right there.

She'd seen it happen.

She lied.

Armin grappled with his sight, feeling detached from himself. He heard his own voice shouting.

"Yes, I'll leave him if I have to, but what does that matter? You're gonna let her go! You're gonna do it right now, or I swear—!"

"What are you going to do?" It was a small voice. A child's voice. "You can't stay in a body for long. You can't touch things in your real form. You're weak. You should just let go."

"So I end up a glorified attack dog like you?" Armin's voice was raw. "No way!"

"You're running out of time…" The small voice turned strangely deep. "Stop fucking around!"

"I'm trying, but you won't let go of her, and I can't carry her! Armin's not that strong!"

"That's too bad." The deeper voice was flat. Monotone. "You said you'd leave him. Do it."

"I said that only as a final option!"

"It's either her or him!" The voice wasn't even angry. He just made his voice louder. There was something loud near them. Flames. Heat. Smoke. Armin was floating somewhere. Everything was cold. He was lying face down on the surface of a shimmering green pool. "Pick her, don't be stupid! Just hurry up!"

"You're the one who did this!" Armin's voice was distraught. "Why do I have to choose? I can't do that!"

"You said you'd leave him."

"I don't think I can, I don't… oh no, no, no, _no_! I don't want them to die!"

"You're pathetic."

"At least I still have a will of my own!"

_Armin_, Eren's voice floated inside Armin's head. He was floating alongside him in the shimmering green pool. _There's something you should know_.

Armin turned himself onto his back to stare at the stars. There was someone peering down at him. On the cliff from where he'd fallen.

_I don't care_. Armin's thoughts sent ripples through the surface of the water like a skipping stone. _Just save Mikasa. Stop wasting time. You can leave me here, it's fine. Just save her, Eren, please_.

And then, the water was gone, and it was replaced by excruciating heat. Armin could no longer breathe. Everything was hazy and gray and flickering, and he fell to his knees. There was a man in the smoke, watching him with cold eyes. Uncaring eyes. His image flickered, and then he was just… gone.

Armin wanted to scream, but he hadn't the breath to do so.

Armin felt himself being dragged.

Dragged, and then, without warning, carried.

He blinked rapidly, fading in and out of consciousness as the smoke seemed to clear up a little, and something like fresh air came over him.

When he finally came to, he was lying on the cold pavement of the parking lot, blinking up at the night sky. He immediately began to cough. Violently.

He had no idea what had just happened.

"He's awake!" a familiar voice called. He blinked blearily, and he took a deep breath. He didn't know what was going on.

"Mikasa," he croaked. He sat up. He rubbed his eyes furiously, and then looked around, but he couldn't see anything clearly, and his lower lip trembled. No. This wasn't right. Where was she?

Jean hushed him as he began to cry. "No, no, hey!" Jean put his hands on Armin's shoulders. "It's fine, it's fine! She's right over there, talking to Annie, see?"

"N-no…" Armin rasped, rubbing at his eyes even harder. "W-wait, am I alive? For real? J-Jean?"

"Um, yeah?" Jean stared at him, his eyes flickering from his face to something close by. "Okay, I'm going to get you some water. Don't worry, okay? Everything's fine, the firemen got it, and most of the damage is to the garage. Sit tight for a sec."

Armin ached to beg him not to leave, but he couldn't speak, so he just let Jean go. He clutched his chest, coughing a little more, and blinking upward. The sky was clear. His mind was not.

"Armin."

He glanced beside him. Eren was crouched there, looking sad and somber as he sat. Armin swallowed hard. He was not ready for this.

"You're okay, right…?" Eren looked at him with large eyes. "Please say you are. I… I was really scared that I… that you…"

Armin simply stared at him. And Eren sighed.

"You heard," he said quietly. "That I was going to leave you. Right? Armin, I couldn't do it. I couldn't choose."

"I'm not sure why that was even an option," Armin muttered, though it wasn't necessarily true. He had no idea how he'd gotten out of that crawlspace.

"Because," Eren gasped, his eyes widening and his voice breaking apart, "because… god. You really, really don't know, do you?"

"No?" Armin glanced at him quizzically. "I really, really don't know, and it's killing me. Did you think I was pretending? Why would I do that? To not seem arrogant? I might be a liar, but that's just stupid."

"I'm sorry, Armin," Eren blurted. He scooted closer, and Armin stared at him vacantly. "Really, I didn't… the things I said before? I was angry because I don't want to disappear. But maybe it's better if you know the truth. After… after this… after what just happened…"

"What did just happen?" Armin watched Eren's dark face, and he squinted at him. "What do you know about Levi?"

Eren barked a laugh. "Levi?" He rolled his eyes. "I'd need a solid few hours, Armin. For real."

Armin coughed weakly, and he glowered at his hands. "Hange said the exact same thing, what the hell…? What is up with this guy?"

"He's like, the weirdest person ever. And that's saying a lot, considering our group of friends."

Armin considered this. "Yeah, that is saying a lot," he admitted.

"I'll tell you," Eren promised. "I'll tell you everything. But first, check on Mikasa. I'm scared to talk to her."

"She can see you?" Armin shot Eren a bewildered glance. "Why didn't you say something?"

"She's looking at you," Eren squeaked. "Armin! Armin, go tell her I'm sorry!"

"What'd you do?" Armin was so confused. Nothing made any sense!

"I… possessed her without permission. She hates that. Go apologize for me!"

"Er—!" Armin caught himself. There were people around him. A lot of people. Ymir was there. Historia. He could see now. Annie and Mikasa were watching him with blank stares. "Shit. You owe me for this."

"I know who started the fire," Eren quipped. "I'll just tell you that later, and then it's even. Okay?"

"Whatever."

He wandered over to them, blinking the glaze from his eyes and beginning to see more clearly. He didn't feel right. There was a residual cloudiness that hung over him from Eren taking over his body. How weird that was, the whole possession thing. He didn't know what to think about it.

Why would Eren need Armin to apologize for him? It made no sense. Eren was usually more confrontational than this.

"Armin," said Annie, watching him with her droopy eyes softening.

"Annie." He nodded to her. "Um. So. How did I get lying on the ground?"

"According to eyewitnesses," Annie said, "Mikasa carried you out."

"The fire was out by then, though," Mikasa murmured. "We probably would have died otherwise."

"Yeah, well, you didn't." Annie rolled her eyes. "Congrats. You're alive."

"Yeah, we're alive, awesome." Armin rubbed his face tiredly. "Can you check the crawlspace?"

"Armin," Mikasa snapped. Really, truly snapped. Her face grew dark, and her voice scathed him like she'd dragged his teeth over gravel.

"Um," Annie said slowly, glancing between them. "What for?"

_I don't know_, Armin thought, _Levi Ackerman's dead body?_

But Mikasa's vicious stare had him retreating.

"Never mind," he sighed. "It's just dangerous, I guess. The garage leads into it, so it's probably damaged."

"Huh." Annie glanced between him and Mikasa. "Right. Okay, I'll see about it."

She left them alone. Armin bowed his head, unable to meet her eye. She didn't speak, but he felt her glare. This was so unlike her. It hurt. She inhaled sharply. "Armin—"

"Eren told me to tell you he's sorry," he blurted, finally looking up at her. Her eyes flashed wide, and they stood for a moment simply staring at each other.

She opened her mouth. Then, uncertainly, she closed it.

Armin felt his heart stuttering.

She looked down at her feet.

"I don't understand you, Armin," she whispered. She turned from him and walked toward the blackened garage, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

Armin swayed dizzily, sickened from smoke and sadness. He didn't understand himself either.


	10. Chapter 10

**the snare**

"I lied to the police."

If words were tools, he imagined his own words were methods of torture.

Carla and Grisha Jaeger were usually very understanding people. Armin had always felt that they were trustworthy, at least out of the options he had in adults to confide in. His grandfather was amazing and smart and brilliant, but he was old and his memory was fading, and he had a tendency to let things slip without meaning to. Kenny Ackerman was not even an option. So Carla and Grisha were Armin's go-to when he needed to admit to something.

He regretted admitting this.

They sat across from him, Carla's eyes large and vacant, Grisha's purely wary. They regarded him as though they did not know him at all, which hurt him. He'd been fifteen years old. He could not fathom why they would be so suspicious of him. It hurt him. Coming away from the fresh wound that was Eren's disappearance, it really, truly hurt him.

"What do you mean, Armin?" Grisha asked, leaning forward. Beneath his glasses, his eyes narrowed. For some reason, Armin felt like he was being interrogated. He'd never been afraid of Eren's father before, but in that moment it was truly terrifying to be under his thumb.

He'd scratched his knuckles anxiously. It was difficult to remember these things now, but back then he'd been struggling with his own mind and his own feelings. He could not understand why he felt so inexplicably terrified all the time, why his stomach was constantly clenching up, why his blood felt lumpy and decayed within the confines of his pale, scratched up skin. He wanted to speak up, but his tongue was thick and unyielding. He wanted to fade out of existence, but his body remained concrete and rooted in reality. He wanted to rewind time, to fix all the mistakes he'd made, but time sped forward, and he rotted away with the turning of the days and the flipping of the months.

"Okay," he breathed, straightening up. "Okay, I said that… that the last time I talked to Eren was on the phone. That wasn't true. He came to my house that night."

"What?" Carla gasped, nearly jumping to her feet. Grisha calmed her, laying a hand on her knee. "Armin! Why would you lie about that?"

Tears of shame had filled his eyes. "I was scared," he mumbled, unable to meet their eyes. His nails dug into his skin, and they dragged. "I was scared to get involved. I… I don't know, I don't know, I just—!" He looked up at them, blinking rapidly. "Eren wanted me to go into the forest with him. He said he wanted to show me something."

Carla's expression had gone dark, her fury palpable, and Armin felt sick to his stomach. The fury as directed solely at him. If Armin had spoken up sooner, what would have happened? Would Eren be there now, snapping at his mother for her clear disapproval of Armin? Would he be in the same place? Did any of this even matter?

Where would Armin be?

He swallowed thickly.

"You were the last person to see him," Grisha murmured. "I see. How irresponsible of you, Armin."

He bit his lip.

"I didn't…" he whispered.

"You didn't what?" Grisha's voice stung like a slap. "You didn't. That is the problem here, Armin, you didn't do anything. Your lie may have doomed Eren."

Armin wanted to object. He wanted to shout at them that it wasn't true, but that was a lie. It was completely true. His lies ruined everything. That was the simple truth of it. He wanted to puke. He wanted to die. He stared at them, and he felt that their hatred of him was justified, for he hated himself too. He'd doomed Eren.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, unable to muster up the strength to look at them. "You're right. You're right, I made a mistake."

"Yes," Carla snapped, her eyes wide and tearful and furious. When he looked at her, he saw Eren. He saw him in her twisted lips, her feral expression transforming her beautiful face. Eren was his mother's son. Grisha was something else entirely. "You did. You absolutely did!"

"I really don't know why I did it," he whispered. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_...

"I don't care why you did it!" Carla leapt to her feet, her tears flooding her dark cheeks, and Armin shook in his despair. "You're supposed to be the responsible one. You know Eren, you know the influence you had on him! Why didn't you stop him?"

"I don't know!" Armin brought his raw, red fingers to his lips, and they trembled against his chin. "I don't know, I just didn't!"

"That's not an answer, Armin, that's an excuse!"

"Carla," Grisha whispered. His wife was shaking more than even Armin, and it hurt, because Armin had hurt these people far more than they'd hurt him.

"No," she spat at him, swerving to deliver her wrath upon him. "No. Absolutely not! You don't get to "Carla" me! I'm not going to be calm about this! This could have been prevented, and you know it! Why should I pretend like I'm okay with the fact that my son's gone because everyone around me is a negligent liar? I won't!"

Armin didn't realize he was sobbing until Grisha put a hand on his shoulder and asked him to leave.

Guilt ate him alive. They were right. It was all his fault that Eren was gone. All his fault. It was all his fault! He didn't know how to live with it. All he knew was that the truth was unbearable.

He inhaled truths and exhaled lies, inhaling them once more and poisoning his brain with half-truths that weighed heavily until they melted into his flesh and became part of him.

He never spoke to the Jaegers again. He couldn't tell if they'd ever forgiven him. He didn't want to know.

* * *

><p>He didn't make any sense. Why did people have to tell him this? He had enough trouble trying to figure things out without people throwing this at him.<p>

The fire had been started in the garage. It was an arson. That was what he'd been told. The damage was pretty bad, but it was fixable. Armin was sitting on the steps when he saw Kenny Ackerman pull up on his motorcycle. He felt too empty to care.

"Wow," the man said, his eyes landing on the still smoking husk of a garage. "Bravo, bitch. You really nailed it."

Mikasa stood in the dying light, her eyes tired and her lips tight. Armin watched her. How had she gotten him out? A fractured wrist, a broken rib, a concussion? How could she have saved him? He was so indebted to her, but he felt a niggling doubt about her sincerity. He knew he was a liar. But Mikasa?

"Is there a problem, Mr. Ackerman?" Annie asked, her voice cool. Armin stood up.

"Yeah, officer, this happens to be _my_ property." Kenny's gaunt face was skeletal in the dusk, the last traces of sunlight folding behind distant trees. "So I've got every right to know what happened."

"Someone started a fire," Mikasa said flatly. "That's it. Goodbye."

"That's not it, you squirmy little maggot." Kenny stuck a finger in her face. "You can't afford the repairs. Say it. Say you need my money."

Armin's fists clenched at his sides. He saw Mikasa's face grow dark in rage. She was biting her tongue, he could tell, from the silence that stretched out between them. From not so far away, Historia Reiss was watching the exchange with heavily lidded eyes. Jean, who thankfully had The Captain on a leash, was speaking to Ymir, his eyes shooting worriedly to Mikasa. The firefighters even looked uncomfortable as they boarded their truck, glancing at Kenny Ackerman suspiciously.

"The only thing I need from you," Mikasa said, her voice shaky, "is a restraining order. I swear, Kenny, I _swear to god_, this is the last time you fuck with me. Leave me alone."

He stood for a moment, staring at her. Then, without warning, he burst into laughter. "That's pretty fuckin' gutsy for a girl who can't afford rent! You wanna play, little girl? Okay, then. Why don't you tell your little cop friend all about the night the Jaeger brat disappeared?"

Armin's heart thudded in his chest. Kenny knew? _Wait_, he thought, his gut twisting in horror. _That confirms that Kenny knows something about Eren's disappearance! _Wow, what an idiot.

If Mikasa was shocked at his accusation, she did not show it. Without missing a beat, she retorted, "I'll tell her everything the moment you explain what happened to Levi."

Kenny tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Levi?" He scoffed. "The little bastard killed himself."

Mikasa lifted her head. And then, furiously, she shook it, laughing in disbelief. The sound was broken and awful, and Armin crept closer to her in horror of what she might do. "Sure!" she snapped. "Sure he did! Because there's so much proof of that!"

"A suicide note is proof enough," Kenny said, suddenly very serious about this matter. Armin wanted to tell Mikasa to watch what she said, but he couldn't.

"That was not a suicide note, and you know it."

"Mr. Ackerman," Annie said, her voice harsh. "I suggest you leave. Before I have you arrested for harassment."

"That definitely is not within your power, hon, but nice try."

"I have plenty of witnesses," Annie said, her droopy eyes staring coldly into Kenny Ackerman's face. "You won't believe how easy it is to get an arrest warrant. Now, I'll say it once more. I suggest you leave."

"Tch." The man rolled his eyes. "You really have zero grasp on the situation, do you, blondie?"

She glared at him. Armin was completely lost. Because he knew that Annie knew that Mikasa had been with Eren that night. So what was going on here?

"Well, call me when the power gets turned off, kid," Kenny said, turning away. "And seriously? Stay off the news. I'm getting unwanted attention because you're a camera whore."

"Go to hell, Kenny," Mikasa snarled.

"Someday, little bitch! Someday."

"Oh my god," Annie growled as he mounted his motorcycle.

"Yeah." Mikasa sighed, running her fingers through her hair. She turned to Armin, and she shot him a smile that did not reach her tired eyes. "Hey. The firemen said the building's pretty safe, so we don't have to bunk with anyone. Isn't that nice?"

"Oh, awesome!" he gasped, though he wasn't very excited, and he wanted to whisper to her that they needed to talk. Instead he did as the situation dictated. Annie was watching him, and he knew that she knew that there was something up.

"You think Kenny started the fire?" Annie asked, glancing at Mikasa. "Because I'd agree. That guy is out to get you."

"He always has been." Mikasa shrugged. "I'll be okay. I'm just thankful we got out, and the apartment's okay."

"Well…" Annie shifted uncomfortably. She was probably unused to expressing her feelings. "Be careful."

"Thanks…"

There was something terribly wrong.

He wandered over to where Historia and Ymir were, and he smiled at them dimly. He coughed. "Hey," he said, rubbing his chest. Historia watched him with dull eyes. Ymir quirked an eyebrow. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Watching a soap opera unfold," Ymir said, "clearly."

"Ha ha." Armin glanced at Jean, who merely shrugged.

"They said they were walking and saw the fire. Christa called the police." He shot the tiny girl a smile. "We should totally be thanking her!"

"Oh yeah?" Armin turned his attention to her. She met his eye, her expression utterly blank, and her mouth parted ever so slightly. He smiled at her, feeling vaguely betrayed. "Thanks, Christa."

"Oh, it's really nothing," she gasped, bowing her head. There it was. The act.

Jean glanced at Armin. He was still smiling. And then he wasn't. _He's beginning to understand_, Armin thought, _that no one around him is really who he thinks they are_. It was a sad disillusionment.

"Well," he said, waving at Historia and Ymir. "I'm going to go shower and pass out. Thanks again, guys. See you later." He didn't know how else to tell them to fuck off without explicitly stating, "Fuck off". He turned away. He walked away. Empty. Empty. Empty.

Where had Eren gone?

He ended up alone in the living room, huddled on the couch with his knees buried in his chest, feeling achy and empty and disgusted. He didn't care if he was alone in the apartment anymore. He didn't care who or what was in there with him. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything. Apathy was devouring him, and he was okay with it, because he just did not fucking care anymore.

If you lie to yourself enough, anything can become a truth.

Mikasa came stomping up the metal steps, and the door flew open. He did not look up. He sat in the dark, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat and her shoes scuffling across the floor. She turned on the light, and the leather cushion beside him sunk. He could smell the scent of her, sweat and smoke and oil. She was a mess. So was he.

"Armin," she whispered, her hand landing on his back, rubbing ginger circles into his spine. "I'm sorry, Armin. I didn't mean it like that. I… I don't understand you, but that's not a bad thing. I just…"

He raised his head to glance at her through a curtain of unkempt blond hair. He wanted to smile, but he had no will left to fake his feelings. So he stared. She was exhausted, her eyes shadowy and her face incredibly pale and her expression weary. She continued to rub his back, and it was such a nice feeling. He forgave her instantly.

"Where's Jean?" Armin whispered.

"Outside." She pushed the hair from his eyes, her fingertips warm and callused. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

He sat upright, and her fingers fell from his face as he blinked at her confusedly. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Armin…" She looked at him, her expression very soft. "I have no idea what just happened. I know I must have carried you out of the building, but I don't remember doing that at all. Do you remember anything?"

He wanted to laugh at her, because it was so ridiculous. How could she not remember? It had just happened, it had—! Oh, this was so weird! Armin didn't think it was something one could easily forget. So why had she? Was it because Eren had possessed her? Was that it?

"Do you really not remember?" he asked her in shock.

She scowled at him.

"Yeah, no," she said. "Not even a little bit. I think I fell asleep on my bed, and then… I don't know. I woke up and I was outside, and there was a fire? And I have no idea what happened between then."

"You don't remember the closet thing?" he squeaked.

"Closet thing?" Her eyes narrowed at him. "What do you mean?"

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god_, he thought. He took a deep breath, pushing his hair behind his ears, and he tried to think really fast of ways to explain the terror that he'd felt upon seeing her disappear into the crawl space. But he had none.

"Nothing," he said weakly.

"Armin!" She jumped to her feet, moving before him and grabbing his hands. He stared up at her, his mouth dropping open, and he begged himself to let something slip, anything slip, but secrets were locked inside him, and he had nothing to give her but lies. "You need to tell me these things!"

"It was really nothing, Mikasa," he insisted. "I mean, you were out of it. I was out of it. But you got me out of the house either way. Why does it matter?"

"It just _does_," she hissed, gritting her teeth. She squeezed his hands, but he would not say anything more. "I'm so confused, Armin…"

"So am I," he murmured.

He heard his breathy sigh, the tremulous sound of air leaving his lips shakily. He was tired, and he was lost. She understood that. But they could not help each other. Neither of them were willing to let their secrets go. It was terrible. They were terrible.

Jean decided to walk in at that moment. He paused at the door.

"Okay," he said. "What the fuck, guys. For real?"

"I'm sorry you got wrapped up in all this weirdness, Jean," Armin said weakly.

"I don't care about that," Jean scoffed, striding toward them. "I care that you guys are the worst at communication skills. What the fuck is going on?"

"We don't _know_," Armin sighed. "That's the problem!"

"Well, _somebody_ knows _something_!" Jean threw his hands into the air. "Look, I'm a complete outsider. I have no idea what you guys have been through. But some weird shit is going on here, and the only way anything is gonna make sense is if we talk!"

"I don't like it when you're the voice of reason," Armin said in a soft, fearful voice. "Please stop."

"Shut up, man."

"I'm sorry," Mikasa told Jean, letting go of Armin's hands and straightening up. "You're right. We're all avoiding saying what's on our minds."

"Why don't we start with the fact that the apartment is haunted and go from there," Jean offered. Armin hugged his knees, and he thought about the crawlspace, and he thought about the tiny voice, and then the deeper voice, and he thought about how Eren almost left him there. There was smoke still clinging to the air around them, which was probably really dangerous, and Armin doubted the safety of their home in spite of what Mikasa had said.

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say to that," she said simply.

"Mikasa, you admitted that you've talked to Levi's ghost!" Jean sounded desperate. Armin just wanted him to shut up. Couldn't they just pretend? Couldn't they just pretend that things were okay? Wouldn't it be better? Easier? Armin wanted some peace, but was that even possible?

He hated this.

"When I was _little_," Mikasa said. "Jean, I was just a lonely little kid, I… I made him up."

"I think you're lying!"

"Have you ever actually seen a ghost?" She turned fully to face him, squaring her shoulders and glowering fiercely. "Do you have any reason to actually believe this place is haunted?"

Jean's mouth dropped open. Armin sunk into his seat. That was a no. He was going by Armin's word. Which, as of late, was not entirely reliable. They both knew he was a liar. So here it was. The boy who cried ghost.

He hated this.

"Exactly." Mikasa smoothed her hair back, baring her cuts and her scrapes to them, her wrist all bandaged and her eyes bruised from exhaustion. "I'm going to shower and sleep some more. You two should get some rest too." She made her way out of the room, and as she did so, Armin leapt to his feet.

"Kenny killed Levi," he blurted.

Mikasa froze in the doorway. Jean's eyes snapped wide.

"_What_?" he spluttered, blinking rapidly. "Armin, what the hell?"

"That's what you were implying when he threatened to tell Annie about you being in the woods with Eren that night," Armin said, breathless and eager to milk some answers out of his best friend. "He killed Levi and passed it off as a suicide because Levi left a note… probably intending to… what, run away? You said he wasn't the type to kill himself, and that note never said anything about dying. Just leaving. Mikasa, tell me if I'm right."

She looked at him, and he saw tears in her eyes.

He felt dizzy with nausea, his head buzzing from self-disgust.

He didn't know when to stop.

He didn't know how to stop.

He would push them both over the edge, and it would be the most beautiful and disgusting sight, both their mangled bodies floating serenely across a half-frozen pool.

She left. Without another word, she walked away, and Armin felt sinking despair as he realized that they were never going to find a way around this. Neither of them could speak, for their secrets and their ghosts weighed them down. It was as though his jaw was locked.

"What the fuck, Armin?" Jean asked, looking genuinely distraught. "You said that we should be worrying about her, but you just made things worse!"

Armin stared after her, and the emptiness spread out, heavy and dark, a void with no center, core for feelings to gravitate to. It was a pit in his chest, and he was suffocating from it.

"I know," he said vacantly. "I didn't mean to, but I know I did. Jean, she's lying. Levi's ghost is here."

"I believe you," Jean said quietly. "But that just makes me more worried about Mikasa. And you. Frankly, you guys are really fucked up."

"Thanks, man."

"No problem."

Jean meant well. But he had no idea what he was talking about. Which wasn't his fault, it was absolutely on Armin. But it was fact. None of them knew what was going on.

Armin did not feel safe. He didn't care what the firemen said. Couldn't the floor collapse from damage? Or had the flames not reached that high? They'd certainly found their way into the crawlspace.

He showered, thankful that they still had water, and yet the smell of smoke and dust still clung to him. He combed his hair out of his eyes, staring through the steam and into the mirror, and he thought he must be a monster, with his sunken eyes and sinking cheeks, his exhaustion and malnourishment truly taking a toll on his appearance. It was all his fault for not taking care of himself. He was negligent. He was irresponsible.

He'd let Jean shower before him, so he'd taken a rather long time, soaking in the hot water and reminding himself that he needed to get a job to help Mikasa pay the bills. He figured he could start dealing information again. And now that he wasn't underage, he could probably get cases that would pay him a lot more than what he'd gotten as a child. It could work.

He wandered into his room, drying his hair with a towel and blinking at the broken glass that littered his floor. He stared into the busted window, and he saw Mikasa sleeping soundly in her bed, her face turned toward Armin, her mouth slightly parted and her hair drying around her cheeks. He smiled contentedly, and returned the painting to its rightful place.

Then he set to work.

He swept up the shards of the window from his floor, watching droplets of water fall from his hair and splash in a rhythm against the deceptive, reflective surface. He dropped the shards in a rubbish bin, keeping his towel around his neck to prevent his hair from dampening the collar of his baggy shirt.

When he was done cleaning up his mess, he pulled the books out again. There was something he was missing.

The Wall Cult was clearly deeply enrooted in Shiganshina's history. Anyone with eyes could tell you that after reading _The Cult of Walls_. The streets and the landmarks were all modeled after these three women, Rose, Maria, and Sina. Witches, some sources say, or gods. They were worshipped and scorned either way.

They were all martyred.

Maria had been stabbed twenty seven times and left in the woods. The dagger used in question was the one that he and Eren had spent days and days scouring the woods for as children. So, yeah. There was that. There wasn't much detailing in the book about how it happened, because it'd happened ages ago, but yeah, twenty seven. She'd been left to bleed out on the forest floor, apparently. The past was such a pleasant place.

Rose had drowned. Well, been drowned. Probably the first of many deaths by means of Titan's Maw. According to the book she'd been chased through town, and then through the forest, until reaching the cliff, and then she'd either jumped, or been pushed by some villager or another. They'd fished her body out of the ravine and buried it in a pauper's grave somewhere.

Sina had been burned. Yeah, at the stake. Like any proper witch, Armin supposed. No real fun details there, only that she'd been the last to die.

Armin stared at the book.

Oh.

Oh!

He flipped to the back.

"Shit," he breathed, laying his hand over the furiously scrawled note. In blood. Soil so soaked.

Armin snatched a pen, and began to underline.

Blood. Soil. Waves. Palisades. Shadow. Light.

Below?

What was below?

"Boo."

A chill shot down Armin's spine. Eren was sitting right behind him, practically breathing down his neck. If Eren could breathe. Armin stared at the book a little longer, not bothering to turn around. He knew Eren was there.

"It's really late," Eren said, so close that his words seemed to bleed right into Armin's brain. "It's late, Armin. Go to sleep."

"No, I'm okay."

"Armin…"

Eren appeared before him, sitting on his knees on the floor, his hands folded in his lap. He looked just as tired and lost as Armin and Mikasa. Only he had control over what he looked like. That made things worse.

"I think I'm getting somewhere," Armin whispered, tapping his pen against the back cover of the book, listening to it thump like a disembodied heartbeat. He felt the urge to scratch his knuckles, but he ignored it. "Eren, I really think—"

The book wobbled in his hand.

Armin paused. He looked up at Eren.

There was a crease of frustration carved into his dark forehead, and he gritted his teeth.

"Go," he hissed. The book trembled in Armin's fingers. "Go, you stupid book!"

It teetered drunkenly from Armin's lap and flopped onto the floor.

"Impressive," he remarked earnestly.

"I don't appreciate sarcasm," Eren muttered.

"No, I was being serious."

"Didn't sound like it."

Armin sighed. It was so difficult to please this boy.

"Oh," he said, blinking at his friend. "Eren, you said you'd explain—"

"Um, I have something I want to try," Eren blurted. Armin sat, utterly bemused, and he glanced around the room.

"Try…?" He tilted his head curiously. "Like the piano thing?"

"Yeah… kinda…" Eren shifted. His brown face was losing its color. "I'm going to have to put all my concentration into it, though. So, basically, I'll look horrible. You game?"

Armin grinned at him, and some semblance of feeling returned to his empty chest. "Always," he said.

Eren seemed to relax, and he smiled, his eyes brightening in spite of his appearance deteriorating into what could only be described as an animated corpse. All but the blood and dirt caked to his cheeks seemed to have been drained of color. And, strangely, his lips, which were as plump and flushed with life as they'd been a second before.

Eren reached out, and his fingertips grazed Armin's neck. "Did you feel that?" he asked. Armin felt nothing, but he saw starlight flashing and heard the roar of a waterfall. The world was in slow motion. He shook his head.

"No," he said, smiling weakly. "Sorry."

Eren shrugged, and pressed his hand to Armin's chest, just above his heart. Armin looked down and saw, through the whirring of the world, the rush, and the slowing of life itself, that Eren's fingers had sunken into his chest.

"How about now?" Eren asked, sounding desperate.

"No…" He sighed. "How about you, Eren? Can you feel my heartbeat?"

Armin watched him close his eyes. He shook his head, looking sad and dead. Then, his eyes snapped open, and he leaned forward cautiously.

"How about now?" he asked. Armin waited for his hand to move, and he looked down to see where it went. When he lifted his head again, he found Eren's face so close that he could count the strands of hair that composed his eyebrows, and see the blood caked to his pores. And to Armin's alarm and disbelief, he felt pressure on his lips.

He'd never been kissed before, and it was a strange thought knowing that it was an honor that was given to a dead boy. He honestly did not have an explanation. He'd never done this before, and but he'd be lying if he said he'd never imagined it. Although, Eren was probably more alive in those fantasies than he was now.

The touch of Eren's mouth was so soft that it was practically nonexistent. His lips were tangible, yes, but barely. The feeling of them was cold, and there was no texture to his skin, for all Armin could truly feel was the barest brush of flesh against his mouth. He imagined Eren was concentrating very hard to make even just this little breath of intimacy possible. Armin's lungs seemed to contract in his chest for a moment in guilt. And then they expanded in elation.

Eren was doing this for him.

Armin smiled against his lip, and he wished it were possible for just a little more tangibility, so Armin could touch his shoulder or his neck, or even just push the hair out of his eyes. But the world was cruel, and Eren was dead. Even the realness of his touch seemed to fade, and he was no longer concrete as he kissed Armin. But he didn't seem to care. He had no need to breath, and Armin was not moving, so they stayed like that.

It was nice. It made Armin's chest ache, but it was nice.

Eren pulled back, and Armin realized, pressing his shaky fingers to his lips, and then to his cheeks, that he was blushing fervently. Great.

"Um," he mumbled, rubbing his cheek sheepishly. "Yeah, I felt that."

Eren looked suddenly, positively delighted in spite of his pallid skin and bloody face. He beamed at Armin, his eyes widening and his expression softening. "Really?" he gasped. "Like, really, really? You felt it for sure?"

"Yes…?"

"Awesome." Eren slumped, closing his eyes, and looking absolutely content. "Really awesome. Holy shit!" Then they snapped open urgently. "Wait, that was okay, right? It wasn't weird, or anything, right?"

"It's fine, Eren," Armin whispered, blinking rapidly. He smiled, and let himself relax a little. "I liked it. So it's fine. Do you want to try again, or…?"

Eren stared at him, and he laughed. Then, quickly, he stifled the sound. He shook his head. "Some other time," he said. "I honestly don't think I have the energy to do that again. But rain check. Definitely."

Armin smiled at him, unable to stop. "Okay," he said. He pulled his towel from the floor, realizing it must have fallen from his neck. "So… why, exactly…?"

"I really wanted to try it," Eren admitted, glancing up at the ceiling. "You know, at least once. In case you figure it out, and I go away."

Armin's breath hitched. He didn't want to think about that. "Eren," he began. Eren shook his head.

"Go to sleep," he said firmly. "You can't keep starving yourself of food and sleep, you'll go nuts."

_Maybe I already am_, he almost said. He swallowed the words down, and he stood up, moving uncertainly to his bed. He climbed onto it, watching Eren with all his curiosity still abuzz in his head.

"Was that the first time you've really touched someone since…?" Armin couldn't even say it. He laid down, brushing his hair from his eyes and turning to face Eren. He looked sad, and the blood on his side of his face seemed to be getting brighter and brighter while his face got paler and paler. Armin didn't like it. He didn't look right.

"Yes," he whispered.

Armin turned off his lamp, and he watched the room fall into darkness. Still, though, Armin could sense Eren there. He pulled his blanket up to his chin, resting his cheek on his pillow as he inhaled the residual scent of smoke, and once more worried over the safety of everyone around him.

"Eren," he murmured. He knew he was close by.

"Yeah?" He seemed to be sitting on the floor below Armin with his back to the bed. Armin smiled into his blanket, giddy and amazed. He didn't get it.

"Will you be here when I wake up?"

The silence stretched out before them, lying like a blanket of snow. Chilly and fragile.

"I don't know," Eren whispered.

Armin didn't know if he wanted to fall asleep.

Inevitably, even his mind slowed at times, and he was left to drift in an icy pool, his body swishing along the still current, unmoving and bent in such an awkward, awful shape, as though some of his bones had just decided to shift ninety degrees. No pain, of course, no pain, but he was there, and it was odd to be so numb and so terrified.

He was dragged from the water by a pair of strong hands.

He heard sobbing. Perhaps it was his own.

When Armin woke up, there was sunlight filtering in through his window. Eren was gone.

He sat up, groaning and slumping, his muscles stiff and his eyelids heavy.

_Okay_, he thought. _Okay_.

He kicked his blankets away and jumped to his feet. Okay! He stripped his tee shirt and sweat pants off, tugging on a pair of jeans and an oversized red sweatshirt over some flannel shirt or another. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and after he did so he tilted his head at his reflection. He looked just as sallow and gauzy eyed as he had the night before, but at least he felt a little better. He puffed out his cheeks, adjusting his bangs so they were not in his eyes. Then he pulled his hair up into a messy, stubby ponytail, and he threw his hood up.

Don't go into the woods.

Don't go into the woods.

Don't go into the—

Well, fuck it.

He left the house, making his way into town with his face pressed into the folds of his sweatshirt, his hands stuck in his pockets to shield them from the chill of the early morning. He walked across the bridge and stopped to admire the river.

_Murderer_, he thought to the ceaseless current, to the pebbles and the crags, to the bluish, grayish, whitish stream. He leaned against the stone rail, thumbing the indented graffiti, tales of lovers and liars biting into his skin as the early morning mist rose from the steadily flowing water.

Someone jogged past him. He turned his head, his cheek brushing the red fabric of his hood. He saw the glimmer of her hair first, hand-spun gold spilling from a loose knot at the nape of her slender neck, caressing the little muscles that peeked through the back of her shirt, working effortlessly as she moved. Pale wires bounced from her ears, and without pausing she turned her head back to him. They looked at each other, wisps of her sunshine hair falling into her large blue eyes. Her plump pink lips parted in bemusement, and then she turned her face away, deciding he was not worth staring at.

Sometimes Historia Reiss made him feel invisible. Perhaps that was her intention.

Armin watched her for a while until she disappeared into the path that cut into the woods.

_Don't go into the woods! _

He'd call that to her if he actually gave a fuck.

He'd feel guilty and creepy following her, but he was already a guilt-ridden creep anyway, so it probably didn't matter.

Still, he found himself stuck in place. Something was keeping him here. Staring at the river. Was Eren's body down there somewhere? He felt like someone would have found it, but it was a big river. And of course no one was looking. Just being here made him want to scream onto his throat was raw and sore.

He took a picture of the river with his phone, wind beating at his back.

He scrolled through his pictures, and he found the screenshots of Mikasa's texts, the ones that had ignited this entire search.

How unlike her it was to admit to something.

He stared at her words, her wording, her drunken typing making it difficult to truly understand. Time flows like a river, doesn't it? Don't get stuck in it like he did.

Why did I listen to him, why can't we go back, why don't we go back, I want to go back, let's go back!

Armin read over her text.

Why didn't I lis—

No.

Why didn't I liten to him?

S.

Okay.

Wy can't w go back?

H. E.

Armin bit at the tender skin surrounding his thumbnail.

Why on't we go back?

D.

Shed.

"No way," Armin whispered.

He counted again, he went through it again, substituting letters, but nothing made sense, and the absence of specific letters really did spell out "shed".

Armin wanted to hurl his phone into the river and forget all of this.

He noted someone walking behind him on the other side of the bridge, and out of paranoia he glanced at them. It was a tall man, broad shouldered and proper, his posture impeccable and his overall demeanor almost irrationally put together. Armin envied him.

He caught sight of his face, his chiseled cheekbones and acute gaze, and Armin's eyes widened.

"Hey," he breathed, pushing off the rail and striding hurriedly to catch the man. "Hey!"

The man paused, looking a little alarmed at the sight of Armin, but he smiled politely anyway.

"Hello," he said cautiously, his eyes traveling downward curiously to see beneath Armin's hood. He threw it back, letting his fluffy bangs fall into his eyes, his neck suddenly bare to the frigid morning air.

"Erwin Smith!" Armin gasped, unable to contain himself and pointing rather rudely at the man's face. "You're Erwin Smith!"

_Way to go, Armin_, he thought to himself furiously as his face flushed in embarrassment. _Nailed it_.

"I am," the man said, looking astonished. He tilted his head, peering closer at Armin's face. "I know you."

"Yeah," Armin breathed, blinking fast. "I mean, yes. We met like, years and years ago, so I get it if you don't remember—"

"Armin," Erwin said gently. "I remember you. You fell in Reiss's office."

"Oh. Oh my god." Armin winced, pushing his hands beneath his bangs to hide his shamed face. "Yep, that'd be me."

"Ah, I'm sorry, that's a terrible way to remember someone." Erwin shook his head. "No, I really do remember you, though. You're an excellent hacker, if memory serves."

"Um, yeah…" Armin shifted nervously. "Though I don't really broadcast that. Last time word got around I ended up in the prime minister's office. Not really fun."

"I've always wondered about that." Erwin's eyes were glittering with curiosity. "It was always strange to me that he went to you for information. You were a child, after all."

"I never fully understood it either," Armin admitted. He glanced off into the distance, toward the path were Historia had disappeared into the forest. "I think I can guess, though."

Erwin followed his gaze. He lifted his head, and he nodded slowly. "Ah," he sighed. "Yes. Historia."

Armin jolted in alarm. "You know her?" he gasped. _If he knows about her_, he thought, _then Reiss must too. Meaning_…

At the back of his mind, this man's voice floated vacantly, information sliding and slithering, "_Sir, you have a call on line one from Mr. Ack_—"

"I'm acquainted with her, yes. I suppose you must know her well, considering this town's size and your ages. Are you friends—?"

"Is Rod Reiss a friend of Kenny Ackerman's?" Armin blurted, stepping forward and staring intently into Erwin's face. The man had the expression of someone completely innocent, but Armin knew better. _Oh_, he thought, _this guy's exactly like me_.

"Kenny Ackerman," Erwin repeated. A level voice for a level man. Armin could not sense his feelings, and that irritated him. "What do you know of Kenny Ackerman?"

"Um," Armin said, pressing his lips together. "Well, he's my best friend's uncle. And I kinda live in his house at the moment— I mean, he doesn't live there anymore, but he still owns it. Which he likes to point out. A lot."

"You know Mikasa Ackerman?" Erwin asked, letting the slightest bit of eagerness slip into his tone. He was clearly shocked, but he hid it well, and he cocked his head, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. "Of course you would. Everyone knows everyone in this town, I suppose."

"That's not necessarily true," Armin murmured. "How do you know Mikasa?"

"Hm?" Erwin blinked down at him, and he tapped his chin, glancing up at the sky. Armin thought, squinting at his face, noting his long eyelashes and vacant expression, that he must be very good at flirting. Therefore, he was very good at deception. "Ah, I only met her a few times, and she was very small then. She most likely won't remember me, but I was a friend of her cousin's—"

"You knew Levi too?" Armin couldn't believe this. "Wait, that's why you're so wary about talking about Kenny, because you know. Don't deny it! You know he's a monster, and you don't want me to get involved, but look, I'm living in his house, I've seen what he can do, and I'm prepared to face the consequences of the truth!"

"Now you've lost me." Erwin's lips were parted slightly as he tried to follow Armin's thought process. "Are you speaking of Kenny's abuse?"

"Yes, that'd be one thing." Armin folded his arms across his chest, and he scowled out at the river, feeling that things were shifting. Pieces were falling and cracking their spines as they shifted into place. "He beat Levi, didn't he?"

Erwin stared at him. Here Armin was, sticking his nose where it shouldn't be. Connecting Eren's murder to Levi's would not be hard if Armin had this man on his side, he just knew it.

"I suppose," Erwin sighed, leaning his back against the stone rail, "you must have seen Kenny's nature firsthand if you are truly so close with Mikasa."

"He whipped me once," Armin blurted. He could not keep in his hatred for the man any longer. Secrets were bleeding from his every orifice, too much, too much, too much to contain any longer. He was crumbling. "I back-talked him— I'll spare you what I said, but it was pretty awful, and I was pretty weak, and he whipped me with his belt. I had to lie to my grandpa and say I cut my back climbing a chainlink fence."

"Levi told me," Erwin said quietly, his eyes turned toward the expansive river, wearing an utterly blank expression, "never to speak to him. Before I even met him, Levi warned me to keep my— ah, how did he phrase it… he said something like, "keep your big fucking mouth shut, or I swear I'll be the one to break your pretty face". He was a very pleasant fellow to be around, you can imagine."

"I can." Armin thought of the bloody man who had insisted that Armin leave Mikasa's room. Levi's room. Oh. "Pretty?"

"It might have been prissy," Erwin sighed. "He liked to use those interchangeably when it came to me. Apparently I have an "aristocratic air" to me. You're probably very lucky you didn't know him, Armin, he was a piece of work."

Armin wanted to count himself lucky, but he knew he'd met Levi, and he knew it was not a pleasant thing to be around him. What had happened to him to make him so angry and violent?

"How did you meet?"

"Oh." Erwin chuckled, nodding his head in a slow, wistful motion. "Well, when we were teenagers we both had a particular taste for breaking the law. So, street racing. Mind you, Levi was a juvenile delinquent and I was valedictorian, futbol captain, and in the majority of the extra curriculars my school offered. I attended a boarding school in Trost, but I lived here during the summer, so I knew Levi by reputation. I think he hated me on principal."

"You sound like you're good at everything," Armin blurted, staring at the man in awe.

"No, that's not true." Erwin rested his elbows against the gray stone rail, and he lifted his head so Armin could see the sharp line of his jaw and the muscles of his neck beneath his heavy scarf. "Levi was better than me in almost everything. The only trouble was that he was an angry, reclusive, apathetic individual who did not want any attention. Academically he struggled, most of which was not his fault— it's very difficult to remember now, but he never liked reading. I believe he was dyslexic, but he never really told me anything about it. Is this boring for you, Armin? I'm sorry, I'm getting carried away with myself, it's been years since I've talked about him to anyone who didn't know him as well as I did."

"It's absolutely fine!" Armin gasped. "Mikasa doesn't like to talk about him, and I honestly didn't even know he existed until like, yesterday."

Erwin laughed. "Does she really not talk about him?" He looked curious, but also a little sad, which Armin found endlessly fascinating. "That's strange, Levi adored her."

Armin stared at him. His interest in what Erwin was saying, which had already been high, increased ten fold. "He did?" he asked eagerly. "Mikasa said that he was really distant and weird."

"Well, yes, he was." Erwin rolled his eyes, a small smirk pulling away at his lips. He seemed to be smiling fondly at old memories, and Armin pitied him, because he pitied himself, because this man reminded Armin his own troubles. "Like I said, he was apathetic and reclusive, and he hardly ever showed what he was feeling. But anyone with eyes could see he loved that little girl. See, she didn't visit often, but when she did she was practically attached to his hip. Levi was very adamant about his personal space, but he was never not holding her hand, or carrying her on his back. It was strange, he honestly seemed to forget she was there sometimes, and just go about his business barking his usual unpleasantries at people with her watching and listening with her chin on his shoulder."

Armin tried to imagine it. It wasn't hard. He found himself smiling, and then frowning, because now he understood. If Levi really did love Mikasa that much, no wonder he was still hanging around her. Only… why would he try to kill her?

"I've known Mikasa since we were little kids," Armin whispered, "and she never said a thing about him."

"His disappearance was… difficult." Erwin bowed his head, and his face grew dark and shadowy from what could only be suppressed rage. "For all of us. I remember seeing her at the service for him, and it was hard even for me to watch her. You wouldn't believe how many people bothered her, giving her and her parents their condolences. It was as though they were Levi's real family, and Kenny was just some place holder that got to hold the title for the sake of legality. Everyone knew that Kenny bore no love for his son, and yet no one had done a thing about it."

Armin took a deep breath. It was shaky. He was shaky.

"And they let him have Mikasa anyway," he hissed, angry and disgusted. "You say everyone knew about Kenny, so why did no one stop him?"

"I tried," Erwin admitted. "I asked for custody of Mikasa, and our friend Hange tried as well despite hardly even knowing the girl, but because Kenny was her last living blood relative, the rights automatically went to him. I'm still bitter about it."

Armin tried to imagine what life would have been like if Mikasa Ackerman had been taken in by this man instead of her uncle.

He felt that he knew for a solid fact that everyone would be so much happier, and Eren would probably be alive.

"So then you worked for the prime minister," Armin said, folding his arms across his chest. "How did that work out for you?"

"I sense you're judging me," Erwin sighed, "but you should understand better than anyone. In order to gain valuable information, you must be willing to lie down in the dirt and take whatever you can get. I know Rod Reiss better than he knows himself."

"Then," Armin said in an equally soft, languid tone, "you must know his connection to Kenny Ackerman."

Erwin glanced down at him. His brow furrowed.

"Of course," he said evenly, smiling down at Armin, the sweetest of smiles. "However, I'll be frank with you, Armin. You are nothing but a vague acquaintance to me."

"An information trade, then," Armin insisted. "I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"You assume you have any information worth having."

"If the prime minister called for me personally," he said, schooling his features, "then I imagine I must be very good at what I do."

Erwin looked at him. Bait. Hooked. The line wobbled.

"I'll think about it."


End file.
